


Peaches

by MaddieTHall



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25789504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieTHall/pseuds/MaddieTHall
Summary: AU set at the beginning of Season 1. Sloan offers MacKenzie some advice.
Relationships: Will McAvoy/MacKenzie McHale
Comments: 23
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a woman standing in the bullpen. A young woman. A young-ish woman, anyway. Who is, as it turns out (after some awkward questioning from MacKenzie) waiting for Will. The woman's presence makes MacKenzie seethe with rage. And regret. And longing. And jealousy. Because her rival is a cheerleader who's _half. his. age_ (okay, maybe not _half_ his age, but close). He really ought to be embarrassed. What is it with men, anyway? If MacKenzie showed up with someone twenty years her junior, eyebrows would definitely be raised (and not just because he wouldn’t be old enough to drive at night).

She follows Will into his office. “Can I warn you about something?” she offers.

He turns toward her and shrugs. "Sure."

Although his amused, knowing expression tells her this is unlikely to go her way, she in too far to retrieve herself. After all, isn't it part of her job to make sure he doesn't bring shame upon their show? Besides, jealousy isn't her _only_ motive: perhaps he simply doesn't realize that dating someone Danielle's age makes him look like an idiot. She's doing a public service. 

She takes a deep breath and tries to speak evenly. Without emotion.

“You’re a rich and famous person and for that reason only she may want to sleep with you.”

He’s barely able to hide his smirk. “That didn’t sound like something that should come with a warning. That sounded like something that should come with balloons.”

She exhales loudly.

_Jackass._

And then a heavy fatigue settles over her. She’s only been back in his orbit for a few weeks and it already feels like years. Even so, she knows that no matter how tired _she_ is of this pissing match, it’s not within her power to end it.

And then her inner neurotic decides it's time to relinquish every last bit of her self-respect. Her next statement is out before she can stop herself: “I don’t think you should go out with her.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t think you should go out with her.” (As if repeating it will make the message more persuasive.)

“Why not?”

“It’s beneath you, Will. Dating someone her age is beneath you.”

That’s only about one-eighth of everything she wants to say to him, but why bother? He’s got his head so far up his ass he’d give himself a colonic if he gargled. Yes, it’s partially her fault they are where they are, but it’s his fault for being so stupid.

“Thanks for the tip,” he tells her. He stubs out his cigarette and turns around to check his reflection in the mirror affixed to his cabinet. He makes a big show of smoothing his hair back and pretending to care about his appearance and when he turns back around he’s annoyed to discover how very sorry he is that she’s gone. Now he’s obliged to take Danielle to dinner. He’d only asked her out so he could ask her to meet him here so he could get a rise out of MacKenzie and now he’s stuck with her for the evening. He _is_ old and he’d much prefer to go home and sit on his balcony (even if it’s only to ruminate about the woman with whom he’s in love but can’t forgive). Well, at least Danielle is saving him from that fate. For a few hours, anyway.

He checks his look in the mirror, sighs and puts on his game face.

Perched at the top of the stairs, Sloan watches MacKenzie exit Will’s office, give a fake smile to Danielle and head into her own. Will emerges a minute later and Sloan sees that Danielle is the recipient of another fake smile. She doesn’t know which one of her colleagues is the bigger idiot.

Once Will and Danielle have exited the bullpen Sloan makes her way down the stairs and pushes open MacKenzie’s door.

“Sloan,” MacKenzie says, looking up and adjusting her glasses as she hastily places the picture she was staring at—the one of her and Will she usually keeps hidden in her desk drawer—face down on her desk. “What can I do for you?” She’s only known Sloan for a few weeks but she likes her very much. Still, she has to at least try to pretend to be professional.

“Will’s winning,” Sloan tells her.

“Excuse me?”

“Winning. When was the last time you had a date meet you here?”

MacKenzie shrugs. “A better question is, ‘When was the last time I had a date?’”

“Seriously?”

“Mmmmhhh.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. How long?”

“Three years and two months.”

Sloan quickly does the calculations. “Three years. Weren’t you with—”

MacKenzie nods.

“Wait—” Sloan says, disbelieving. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“It was the night before we broke up. Will took me to the Met Gala.”

Sloan gives her a puzzled, partially pitying stare. “Kenzie, I—I can call you that, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Kenzie, as much as I’ve come to admire you in the last ... 24 days, I really have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“You’re pathetic.”

“I can’t disagree with you there.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s true—”

“Not that,” Sloan says impatiently. “ _Why_ haven’t you dated anyone since Will?”

She shrugs. “I’m afraid everyone else pales in comparison.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Sloan strolls over to where MacKenzie is sitting and darts her hand out to grab the photo MacKenzie had been staring at when she came in.

“Hey!” MacKenzie says.

Sloan glances up from the picture long enough to turn a penetrating look on her colleague before looking back down and studying the photo. MacKenzie’s brother had taken it the last time she and Will had visited the UK. MacKenzie is sitting in Will’s lap in the picture with her arm around his shoulder. He’s gazing at her with an adoring look on his face while MacKenzie aims an equally adoring look at him.

Sloan glances up again and this time her expression is nothing _but_ pitying: “ _This_ ,” she says firmly, turning the picture to face MacKenzie, “… is the real deal. _This_ ,” she says, pointing to Will, “is a man who loves you."

“Loved me.”

Sloan shakes her head. “ _Loves_. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“I’m afraid it’s hopeless, Sloan. He can’t forgive me.”

“Well, maybe he would if you actually did something about it instead of acting like a wet noodle.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course, you have a choice. You’re letting him set the terms of your relationship.”

“He has my contract.”

“I’m not talking about your professional relationship. I’m talking about your personal one.”

“Sloan, I’m not the one who can’t forget the past. It’s completely up to him.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“And which part is in my control?”

“The part where you point him in the right direction.” She leans against the desk and folds her arms across her chest while fixing MacKenzie with a pointed stare. “What’s your plan, Kenzie? Do you even have one?”

“What? To win him back?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I do,” she says hotly. “I’m going to prove that he can trust me.”

“And how long will that take?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seriously,” Sloan snorts. “You need a better plan.”

“Like what?”

“Like reminding him what he’s missing.”

“He sees and talks to me five days a week, Sloan. Sometimes six or seven. He hasn’t been moved to action yet.”

“So don’t talk about it. _Do_ something about it.”

“Like what? Show up at his apartment in a lace teddy?”

“Does he like lace teddies?”

“ _Sloan_. Be serious.”

“I _am_ being serious. Guys like Will live in their head. You need to remind him of what he feels.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

She puts the photo right-side-up on the desk and leans against the desk. “Let me ask you something. Would you do it again?”

“What? Date someone behind his back?”

“Screw someone behind his back,” Sloan corrects her.

“No,” MacKenzie says.

“Why not?”

“Because it was wrong. And because if I were ever lucky enough to have Will back, I’d protect our relationship with my life.”

Seemingly satisfied, Sloan winks at her. “Then how would you like me to tell you where he keeps the extra key to his penthouse elevator?”

“Why do you know where he keeps an extra key to his elevator?”

“I was eavesdropping on a conversation he was having with Maggie. Something about being able to get into his apartment in case of an emergency.”

“Are you suggesting I ambush him? Are you mad?”

“No. Bored. I think you should go over there and wait for him to come home.”

“In a lace teddy?”

“I’ll leave that to you. Better not wait too much longer, though. I’m pretty sure he’ll be home early. He’s old—no offense—and he has no real interest in that girl.”

“I can think of about a hundred ways lying in wait for him could go wrong.”

Sloan turns the picture to face MacKenzie. “Take this with you. Show it to him. Remind him that _that’s_ who you are to each other. That’s who you _really_ are. Not this bullshit play-acting you do every day.”

“I wish I could, Sloan, but there’s only the tiniest chance it would go my way.”

“There’s zero chance if you keep doing what you’re doing. Come with me. I’ll show you.” She heads for Will’s office, MacKenzie trailing behind her.

Which is how, thirty minutes later, MacKenzie finds herself sitting on the couch in Will’s apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours later, the elevator opens and Will steps out, startling MacKenzie from her slumber.

He’s shocked to see her sitting bolt upright on his couch and looking around, confused. _Where the hell am I?_ She looks across the room to see Will standing frozen in front of the elevator. _Oh, right. Fuck._ Sloan's advice is sounding more and more ludicrous every second and though she knows this may be the second dumbest idea she’s ever had, in for a penny, in for a pound. She stands up and pulls her shoulders back.

“Is everything okay?” Will asks.

“Fine, thanks.” She doesn't elaborate.

His eyes dart furtively from one side of the room to the other as if looking for a candid camera.

“What's going on? How did you get in?”

She decides to start with his last question (no sense diving right in). “Sloan gave me your key.”

“How did Sloan get my key?” He holds his hand up. “Wait. Never mind.”

Regaining the use of his faculties, he takes off his jacket and hangs it on a hook before toeing off his shoes and socks. Then he puts his hands on his hips and looks her square in the eye. "What's up?" he asks. "What are you doing here?"

She bites her lip, trying to think of something to say that will buy her some time while she reels from the enforced dissonance of their relationship. Not so very long ago they'd have been racing each other out of the elevator and down the hall to their bedroom, tearing off each others' clothes before dive-bombing onto the bed. Now she's being held hostage in a stage play in which she's forced to pretend she's a stranger to him, as if she doesn't know he has a scar on his left buttock from rounding third base when he was twelve, as if she doesn't know exactly where to place her lips on his abdomen to elicit a moan, as if she doesn't know the little ritual she'd just witnessed—that of tucking his shoes against the nearest wall—had been hard-wired into him by his mother.

 _How the hell should I begin?_ she wonders and then berates herself for her stupidity: she should have spent less time dozing on his couch and more time strategizing. _Idiot._ The path before her is unlit and every passing second heightens her awareness that her chances of victory are slim. So ... now what? Is she really going to do this? Is there even the slightest chance it will go her way? In the end, she decides that if there is _any way in the world_ she can turn this around she has to try. Besides, what does she have to lose, really? Well, aside from what precious little remains of her self-respect. And ... okay ... maybe her job. She tries to buy some time. “Did you have a nice time with Danielle?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, walking over to stand in front of her. She glances down at his perfectly formed feet and a jolt of electricity shoots down her spine and straight into her groin as she remembers the last time she'd seen his bare feet. She'd been looking down between her legs as he'd taken her from behind.

_Jesus._

Clearly, she's the only one afflicted by such musings because he stares at her, unperturbed. “What can I do for you, MacKenzie?” he says evenly, as if encountering her in his living room at midnight is the most natural thing in the world.

Startled from her reverie, she jerks herself back to the present and for a moment she's lost as she stares into the dazzling blue eyes she loves so well. She blinks a few times and that seems to do the trick: the synapses in her brain start firing and it takes just a few seconds more for her to remember. Or rather, to put it all together: although Will's expression is guarded and wary and conveys none of the tender feelings that haunt her dreams, beneath that cool, nonplussed exterior is the same man who'd cried out her name as he'd collapsed atop her back that night after bringing them both to a cataclysmic finish. He's the same man who'd tugged her down onto the bed, coiled his body around hers and buried his face in her neck, murmuring _I love you, I love you_ over and over again as he came down. He's the same man who'd dropped kisses into her hair as she drifted off to sleep and the same man who'd pressed delicate kisses to her lips to awaken her the next morning.

The same heart still beats within his chest. Surely some of the same feelings do, too.

 _THAT'S why I'm here_ , she reminds herself. She's the special forces unit sent to liberate that couple in the bedroom.

She reaches down into her bag to pull out the picture frame then stands up to show it to him. “Do you know who these people are?” she asks.

He looks at the photo and glances back up at her. “Is that a trick question?” he asks. Not with ill-humor. On the contrary: he's amused, as if he lives above the fray.

 _I'll show you the fray_ , she vows inwardly. She's going to force him to get down into the fray if it's the last thing she does.

“Look at them, Will,” she says, pressing the frame into his hand. “Really _look_ at them. What do you see?”

He studies the photo for a moment and hands it back at her. “I see a rube and a liar.”

“You’re wrong.” She looks at the photo again. “I see the best man I’ve ever known and a woman who adores him.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.”

She doesn’t say anything and he wonders what the hell she’d been hoping to accomplish by ambushing him. 

“Still don’t know what you’re doing here, Mac,” he prompts, tapping those beautiful, long toes on the hardwood floor. “Can we cut to the chase?”

She looks again at the photo in her hand. They'd been so happy then. So blissfully, stupidly happy. She'd loved him then as she loves him now: utterly and completely. “Do you remember when this picture was taken?”

“’Can’t say as I do,” he lies.

“It was my parents’ thirty-fifth anniversary party. You and I had just finished dancing.”

“Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.” That’s a lie, too. He remembers all too well how buoyant he’d felt as they’d sashayed their way across the dance floor. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her then. She’d looked so beautiful. So luminous. He remembers feeling like his heart was about to explode out of his chest. And it had, three months later, when she’d made her confession.

“You’d just led me off the dance floor,” she prompts. “You sat down and pulled me into your lap.”

“Were chairs scarce?” 

She ignores him. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

“I can’t even remember the party, Mac. You can hardly expect me to remember what I said.”

“I do. You said, ‘God, I love you, Kenz.’”

His eyes narrow. “That must have been before I found out you were screwing your ex-boyfriend. _While_ you were screwing me.”

“I hadn’t seen him in four years, Will. Not since before I fell in love with you.” She caresses the glass in the frame with her fingertips and when she shows him the photo once more she can't help invoking Sloan's words; for someone so clueless about interpersonal relationships Sloan had been able to cut right to the meat of it. “This is _us_ , Will. _Us_. Who we really are to each other. Not the play-acting we do every day.” 

“I’m not play-acting, MacKenzie," he says dismissively. "Listen. This little trip down memory lane has been a blast but you should—”

Enough. She's had enough of his wise-ass remarks. “Stop it, Will,” she exclaims. “Just _stop_ it. I am _so_ tired of pretending. So very, very _tired_ of pretending!"

He knows damned well what she means but he can't resist trying to get a rise out her, mainly because it's so easy. He shrugs, all innocence. “I'm lost. Pretending what?” 

She glares at him. The part of her that needs to speak to him, the part of her that needs to be _heard,_ is the part of her that is his equal. She knows the truth. She knows who they are to each other and the artifice of their current relationship feels like a weight that's crushing her. “That this isn’t killing me. That not having the right to touch you isn’t _killing_ me.”

Whoosh. All the air leaves his lungs. _You mean you still ...?_ But that thought comes from his heart and his body and not his intellect (which knows better and it will _crush_ any other part of him that dares to step out of line). 

He cocks his head. "You want to touch me?” he asks gleefully. He's mocking her now, but she's too far gone now to retreat.

Her lips press into a thin line as she weighs the advisability of grabbing his nose and yanking it. Hard. Once again, she weighs her options. What did that idiot TED Talk woman say? Some crap about how you can win friends and influence people by showing your vulnerability (or was that Dale Carnegie)? Either way, it's pure bullshit—as if doing that has ever done anything besides make the other person think you're a pathetic sap.

But no matter. Tonight is all about the truth.

“Badly," she says, unsmiling.

She's got balls of steel tonight, he'll grant her that. And he has to admit he's impressed. But her admission is simply too juicy to leave on the table.

“Where?” he asks, once again all innocence.

It's official. She wants to throttle him. She licks her lips and levels a look at him that used to send shivers down his spine. Literally. Still does, apparently. And at that moment he knows he has to be very careful here. Very. One false move and he's going to ... never mind. Best not to think about it.

“All over," she answers.

He's just glad he's got his game face on because he'd be in real danger if he didn't. Still, he can't resist the urge to probe further. “ _All_ over?”

“ _All. over_.” And then she gives him the look that has the power to bring him to his knees. (It has on more than one occasion.) It's penetrating and full of portent and lustful and ... _Oh God. What kind of pants am I wearing?_ He dares not look down.

The air between them crackles with electricity because she _knows_ him and he _knows_ her and despite Will's protests to the contrary they both know everything on the surface is just window dressing to conceal the fire below. Suddenly, without warning, she steps closer to him and the temperature in the room rises ten degrees. He badly wants to adjust his collar because she's so close he can feel her breath on his lips. It smells like mint and tea and home and fuck if he doesn't want to kiss her. Why the hell did she have to break his heart?

“What is it that you want from me, MacKenzie?” he asks in a strangled voice.

 _Interesting_ , she thinks _._ _Maybe I'm doing something right, after all._ “I want _you_ , Will,” she says, gazing up at him with those luminous hazel eyes fringed with long eyelashes that are going to be his undoing if he doesn’t watch it. “I want you back.”

 _Wow._ That's not ... _completely_ unexpected but he's surprised she'd come right out and say it. It's a bold move, wearing her heart (or her machinations) on her sleeve like that. He's not quite sure what to make of it. Or where that's going to leave them when he's forced to turn her down. She's only been back in his life a few weeks but he's come to like having her around, however grudgingly.

“Really?” he says to buy himself some time as he does his best to ignore the pounding of his heart. What the hell is wrong with him? She betrayed him. Why is he _thisclose_ to giving her anything she wants? He has to clear his head so he takes a step back from her. “Is that why you took this job?”

“Yes," she says, stepping forward to close the distance between them once more.

But he refuses to be intimidated and stands his ground. “I thought you took it because you wanted to work in a newsroom again.”

“Ten percent. That's ten percent of why I took it."

“Only ten?”

The urge to mock her disappears when he sees her eyes grow moist. Whatever she's thinking about is going to propel the next thing out of her mouth and he's not sure he's ready for it, particularly since he can feel his own eyes burning in response in the same way he's always felt what she feels ... or been susceptible to it ... or wanted to mirror it ... or something. _Get hold of yourself, man!_

“The rest was you," she says haltingly. "I wanted ..." She bites her lip as she wills herself not to burst into tears. God, she's a mess. And pathetic. "I wanted the chance to put things right." 

_Oh._ He doesn’t know quite what to do with that information. It makes him happy and furious all at the same time but he has no idea why on either count. Still, despite the raw emotion in her expression (and what he secretly feels) he cannot let her think she's gotten the better of him in this exchange.

“I'm afraid you bet on the wrong horse, MacKenzie," he says as gently as he can.

She flinches and he can't help feeling guilty. And dishonest. But she must never know how conflicted he is. He made a promise to himself the day she showed up at ACN that she would _never_ know how conflicted he is.

"It’s not going to happen," he says over a tongue that suddenly feels three times too big for his mouth. "It’s over." Because it has to be. No matter how much he wants her (and he's beginning to remember just how much he does), he wouldn't survive another betrayal. He barely survived the first one.

She blinks rapidly as tears threaten to spill over. _Well, that was painful._ But she can't give up because everything inside her is telling her that the connection is still there. As it is always there. Torturing her. Making her want to weep with regret. Making her want to slam him up against the wall and ravish him. "It doesn't feel over to me." 

"Maybe you should have your receptors checked."

“Were you happy with me, Will?” she asks in a quiet voice.

 _Oh, God. Sincerity._ He can't deal with that. Doesn't want to deal with that. But he's a man, not a mouse, isn't he? Surely he can afford to tell the truth. He juts his chin out defiantly. “Yes.”

“How happy?”

Why _does_ she have to look at him like that? All big eyes and sorrow and affection (the last one feigned, no doubt). His lips part and he tries to close his mouth on the words, but they're out before he can stop them. “As happy as anyone has ever been.” _Why did I say that?_

She puts her hand on his arm. “Wouldn’t you like to have that back?”

He shakes his head. Now he's furious. How dare she try to make him believe what they had was real? “It was a lie, MacKenzie. A _lie_. And I am so fucking _pissed_ that you're trying to gaslight me by trying to convince me that it wasn’t.”

 _Idiot._ “It _wasn’t_ a lie, Will," she says fiercely. "And not only are you a damned fool if you believe that it was, you’re a damned fool if you let this— _this_ —” she says, pointing to the picture. “Go.”

“We're not together," he exclaims. "There’s nothing _to_ let go.”

“We should be.”

“MacKenzie.”

“We _should_ be, Will. And you know it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you finished? Because it’s late and you should go. I have to get up early.”

“Why? College campuses are closed on the weekends. You’ll have better luck trawling for dates on a weekday.”

“Please go.”

“No.”

“Do I have to call security?”

She decides to change tacks. “Why are you so convinced you know everything there is to know about what happened?”

He snorts. “Because I do.”

“That’s the thing, Will. You _don’t._ More importantly, you would do anything _not_ to know it. For a prosecutor who based his entire career on ferreting out the truth you show a stunning lack of curiosity about the facts.”

“You cheated on me and I broke up with you. End of story.”

“That’s part of the story, but not all of it.” She steps closer to him. “I think you’ve been lying to yourself, Will. I think maybe you wanted to break up with me and I gave you the excuse you were looking for.”

 _What? You’re trying to turn this on me? Fuck you_. “You’re crazy.”

“Am I? You wouldn’t even give me a _chance_ to explain. You threw me out like I was a piece of trash. Like I meant nothing to you. Would you have been able to do that to someone you _actually_ loved?”

“You _cheated_ on me, MacKenzie!” he roars. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? Turn a blind eye? Beg for _your_ forgiveness?”

“You were supposed to let me explain, Will! Because that's what people who love each other do! That's what people who are _committed_ to each other do! You know what else they do? They do whatever it takes— _whatever_ it fucking takes—to make sure the relationship stays intact!"

“What was there to explain!?”

“He told me you had another girlfriend!"

He blinks. _What?_

“Erin! He said it was on and off but that you _always_ went back to her! Always!”

“Erin is a lesbian! As you know!”

“I didn’t know that, Will! In the beginning, when we were first dating, I didn’t know that! How the fuck would I have known that?”

“If you knew me at all you’d have known that I would never date two people at the same time.”

“That’s the point. I _didn’t_ know you! And I believed him! I only realized later that he was lying. So, when he asked me over to his place, I said yes. Because I couldn’t stand the fact that he’d rejected me and I thought I was just a stop-gap measure until you went back to your steady girlfriend. And if you really loved me, if I was truly the love of your life, you wouldn’t have made me wait three years to tell you that!” she cries.

 _Revisionist history, Mac. You and that piss-poor excuse for a journalist had been laughing at me for MONTHS_. His only consolation then had been that he’d thrown her out forty-seven seconds after she’d told him. Hadn’t spoken to her again until the moment he saw her three weeks ago when she was standing in the middle of the newsroom. 

_But … but … the thing about Erin ... is that really why you did it?_

_Would it make any difference if it was?_

_SHOULD it make any difference if it was?_

He starts to ask but the sensation of her fingers on his mouth stops him. “ _Please_ , Will. _Please,"_ she begs, suddenly exhausted. "We love each other. _That's_ the truth. And it's the only part of the truth that matters.”

 _You've got to be kidding me._ _Your deceit matters_ , he wants to say, but he's somehow unable to because it’s not physically within his power to do so. Not when she’s standing so close he could kiss her if he wanted to. Which he does. Terribly. And it totally pisses him off.

And now she's looking at him with those big doe eyes, the ones that make him want to throw his pride and every bit of self-respect he has out the window.

“I love you, Will," she says urgently. "Feel _that_. Feel _me._ " 

_Jesus Christ, are we in a romance novel now?_

He tries to open his mouth to deliver a well-placed set-down but it dies on his lips when she starts moving her face closer to his. And then closer. Closer. Inexorably closer. Until finally all he can see are her lovely wide eyes as she leans forward and presses her lips against his. _Holy fuck_. Delicious pinpricks of sensation travel straight to his groin and he knows that no matter where they are he is perilously close to breaking the promise he made to himself where she’s concerned. As her lips move across his all he can think is that it's wonderful. Not the kiss itself (it's too tepid to send him soaring to the heights he remembers from their life together), but the fact that she's so close to him he could pull her into his arms if he wanted to (which he does, _desperately_ ) is _wonderful_. 

Once again he is bitterly reminded of just how much he's missed her. Before he'd met her, he'd known this wily little creature called unhappiness all too well, but she'd slain the dragon and brought him peace. She'd made him feel desire and admiration and love and so many other emotions he'd never felt before that there'd simply been no room for misery. But he's spent the last three years struggling to convince himself that the MacKenzie McHale he'd loved was a figment of his imagination, that he'd never known the real MacKenzie McHale at all. He'd been mortified for himself and furious with her and the worst of it was that the instant he'd laid eyes on her again, standing in the bullpen, he'd wanted her every bit as much as he ever had. He hated her for her power over him and despised himself for being such a weakling, but even now he doesn't know what he wants more: to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to his bed or shove her away and tell her to get the hell out of his life.

In the end, her proximity produces a paralysis so complete he's incapable of doing anything but drawing breath. All he can do is stand there and allow her to do what she will with him. But as he does, frozen as he is with joy and unease, he makes another promise to himself: if he _does_ manage to regain the use of his motor skills in the next few seconds, there is no way in hell he's going to give her the satisfaction of a response. She doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of a response. Not after what she did to him.

He wills himself to become a statue.

She pauses, awaiting his reaction, and when it doesn’t come she moves her mouth slightly to the right, using her warm, soft lips to kiss the corner of his mouth. As she does, feelings of love and loss well inside her, so powerful that she has no choice but to give voice to them. She whispers it against his lips, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much, Billy. I love you so much." He can feel the tension in her body as she awaits his response, and when it doesn’t come she brings her gentle fingers up to stroke the hair behind his ear. The sensation is so familiar, such a welcome memory from their life together that he closes his eyes in order to focus all his energy on stifling a soft sigh. God, he’s missed her, has missed having someone touch him so tenderly, with such feeling.

But he manages to hold himself still.

She tries again, brushing her lips against his cheek. This time, she doesn’t wait for a response, and he can feel her soft body against his as she stands on her tiptoes to bring her lips first to his left eye, then to his right. Once again, it’s impossible for her to keep the words inside. “My perfect love,” she murmurs, lost in the sensation of being so close to him. “My beautiful, sweet, perfect love.”

His hands ball into fists to prevent himself from doing the only thing he wants to do which is _just fucking kiss her_. My God. The compulsion is so strong he fears that any second he's going to have no choice _but_ to do it. She pauses, waiting, waiting and then, still on tiptoes, bends her head to nip at the soft skin below his ear. He can’t quite stifle his sharp intake of breath but he does manage to remain silent as she continues her assault.

As he stands there, secretly luxuriating in the sensation of her lips against his skin, it takes everything within his power not to give her what she wants. She kisses him masterfully, like a maestro leading a symphony, directing his body and his heart to perform to her specifications. As the seconds pass it gets harder and harder for him to maintain his icy façade, but he digs deep then, drawing on his pride to deny her. She alternates between being gentle and demanding, spending the next several seconds trying to force or coax a response from him but years and years of conditioning and having to conceal his emotions have made him a more than worthy opponent.

She makes one final attempt, nibbling his ear so beautifully he has to stifle a moan, but as he continues to stand there woodenly he can feel her confidence wane. She falters then, her kisses becoming less determined and more uncertain until finally she takes an abrupt step back and covers her face with her hands.

And now he feels like shit. _Oh, honey_ , he thinks _. Don't be sad. Please don't be sad. I didn't mean to make you sad._ And then he begins to second guess himself. Even though he owes her nothing and he certainly does not want to love her, the desolation of the woman before him is more than he can stand. Resisting her is important for his pride but it’s obvious that by gaslighting _her_ , by making her feel as if she’s the only one who feels their connection, he's crushing her. Does he want his revenge at the expense of her destruction? He feels a grim dose of disgust that he’s brought such a proud woman to this point, particularly when she _isn’t wrong_ about what he feels.

And so, before he can think better of it, he reaches out his hand to her. “Hey,” he says gently, attempting to capture her wrist so he can bring her hand down in order to look into her eyes but he only succeeds in touching the sleeve of her blouse.

His fingers move—ostensibly to pull his hand away—but they stop the second he feels the delicate skin beneath his fingers. He remembers that skin. How it tasted. How soft it felt. How she used to shudder when he used his tongue on it. As she brings her hands down she stares into his eyes which are suddenly burning holes into her and something shifts. She can sense the little crack that's beginning to form in his armor, the bit of his resolve that's starting to crumble, and a tiny blossom of hope blooms in her chest.

Quickly, while she still has the chance, she reaches out her finger to touch his lips again and suddenly, the urge to taste her is so strong he finds himself involuntarily darting his tongue out to reach her finger. There’s a sharp intake of her breath as his lips curve around her fingertip and he draws it into his mouth, holding her gaze, challenging her to go further. Though he sees fear and apprehension and excitement in her eyes what he sees most of all is hope. He wants to snatch it away from her, to hurt her as badly as she hurt him, but that’s the vengeful part of his nature talking. The part that’s in charge, the part that just wants _her_ , is too far gone.

When her other hand comes up to frame his face something inside him finally, finally gives way. She delicately presses her lips against his once more and to the astonishment of them both he opens his mouth to receive her tongue. The sweet wetness of her mouth ignites all his senses into a conflagration and suddenly, a world that has been completely off-kilter for the last three years instantly, miraculously, beautifully rights itself. _Fuck._ He has no idea why he’s suddenly kissing her back or why his fingers are sliding down to cup her ass or why he’s pulling her hard against his arousal, but he is. His brain completely shuts off. In this moment he’s nothing but a man, lost in the sensation of his woman—touching him. Kissing him. Caressing his ass. _Jesus Christ, I’ve missed you._ His attraction to her is so strong his ears are buzzing. _Oh_ , he thinks stupidly as he welcomes every bit of the sensation she’s offering. _This is the secret to forgiveness_ : kisses. Kisses and love. It flows out of her and into him and for the first time in three years he can feel it washing over him, cleansing him, bathing him in light and warmth and perfection.

 _Perfect, perfect,_ MacKenzie thinks. _You’re perfect. I love you. Please don’t push me away, Will, please._ But part of him wants to. Indeed, his rational mind is screaming at him to do just that but the part that’s in charge isn’t having any of it. It’s too busy whispering _, I love you, Mac, love you, fuck, I love you._

He starts to speak but she redoubles her efforts, desperate to keep going in this vein, desperate _not_ to hear the protest she’s sure is coming.

“Shhh,” she whispers against his lips. “No words. Just feel. Please, Will, please, just _feel_ ," she says, dotting his lips with feather-light kisses. “Feel me. Feel _us_.” Suddenly, he knows he’s caught and that he could no more resist her now than he could resist being knocked down by a waterfall. His tongue darts out and this time he takes the lead, sliding it against hers as he pulls her roughly against him. He drinks of her greedily and as bolts of lightning shoot through him he thinks he might literally go insane. _So good_ , he thinks _. Taste so good. Need you. Love you. Fuck._ And then his hands are everywhere: unzipping her skirt, pulling her shirt out of it, tugging her panties down and doing everything he can do to undress her while still kissing her. She does the same and soon they’re both standing there, breathing heavily, staring at each other, he in his pants and she in her shirt.

She unzips his pants, reaches into his shorts and holds him in her hand for a moment, feeling how hard and rigid he is. He closes his eyes and holds perfectly still, his hands high up on her hips as she strokes him but soon he needs more. Much more. He needs to feel her bare skin against his. He darts his hands out to make quick work of her buttons and then he’s pulling her shirt off her shoulders to reveal the black lace of her bra. He reaches behind her to undo the clasp and when he pulls the straps down she goes to cover her breasts with her hands, suddenly self-conscious. He stops her, in too far now to retrieve himself, and bends his head so he can kiss the soft mounds of her breasts. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, “You are so beautiful, MacKenzie.”

She shudders at the moist heat of his tongue and he freezes when he steps back to behold the glorious view in front of him because just beneath her rib cage is a three-inch scar. He'd known of it, of course, but somehow, somehow he'd ... _oh Jesus_. _Jesus._ He looks up into her eyes, absolutely horrified and grief-stricken and guilt-stricken but before he can say a word she reaches out her fingers to silence him. "We'll talk about it later. Tonight is just about the good things, alright?" He nods, his eyes moist. She leans forward and gives him a deep, soulful kiss and he allows himself to be distracted by the physical sensations that are overwhelming him. Their kisses grow more passionate and soon he grows desperate to be inside her, to remove every last barrier between them.

He reaches between them to jerk his pants the rest of the way down and when he steps out of them he kicks them ferociously across the floor. Suddenly, she feels herself being lifted up and she twines her legs around his waist as he takes three short strides across the room to back her up against the wall. His hands gently caress her ass as he lets her weight slide down the length of him. He fumbles around between them and when she feels him at her entrance, hard and demanding, she stares into his eyes. “I love you, Will. So much. So much," she whispers with such feeling he thinks his heart might literally break.

He stops fumbling for a moment to stare back at her as he weighs her words. _I love you, too_ , he thinks but he can’t quite bring himself to say it. Not yet, not just yet. He hopes she understands this isn’t nothing to him, that indeed it may be everything to him, he’s just not there yet. But maybe he’s on his way. She recognizes the conflict raging below his surface but she won't fault him for his reticence; he’s doing exactly what she asked him to do, to feel.

Soon, he finds his way inside her. They both gasp with relief because this is, as it has always been, right. Absolutely perfect. As he slides home she holds his gaze, willing him not to look away from her and miraculously, he doesn’t. As they stare at each other the emotional connection between them vibrates and hums, crackles and surges with each glorious thrust and soon she’s grasping the back of his neck and exploring his mouth with her tongue in time with his thrusts. He’s all lips and tongue and breath and heat and the pleasure of having him inside her again is beyond her wildest imaginings (and she’s imagined it a _lot_ ). With him, as with no one else, ever, the circuit is finally closed. It’s completion. Perfection. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Happiness. Joy.

Their connection grows more powerful every moment and he knows it won’t be long until he’s past the point of no return, so he reaches between them to touch the place where every nerve ending in her body comes together. She gives a long, low moan that starts at the back of her throat and sends him careering closer to the edge. He sets to work then, employing every trick he can remember from their life together until finally, she’s crying out his name and tumbling over the edge with a volley of half-finished phrases (“… love you, love you, _love_ you!” and “Oh God, Billy. _Billy!_ ”). It’s a high, keening wail that threatens to detonate in his spine. She wraps her legs more tightly around his waist, urging him to go deeper, deeper. _Yes, honey, yes,_ he thinks as he drives into her. He speeds up, pulling out less but going faster, jamming back into her purposefully, masterfully, intent on getting inside her as deeply as he can until finally, finally, he can’t hold back any longer and he gives a convulsive shout as he surges into her, claiming her, filling her. The only words in his mind are _Yes, yes, so good, so good, so right_. _I love you, Mac. I love you._ They cling to one another, lips locked and tongues entwined in a passionate kiss, each overcome by the force of what they're feeling. 

Finally, finally, he stills and the only sound in the room is their labored breathing. He pants into her mouth, completely wrung out and suffused with contentment. _So sweet._ _So good. Being with you is so good_ , he thinks. She tastes like a ripe peach on a hot summer’s day. Perfect. Delicious. Pure, wholesome happiness. He stands there swaying as he holds her against the wall, not wanting to set her down just yet, not wanting to lose the physical connection they share.

He never wants this moment to end.

Lost in her own thoughts, she's too afraid to open her eyes even as she clings to him, awaiting his verdict because despite the emotion of the last several minutes she's terrified of what’s to come. And then, as his breathing slows, she's surprised to feel his mouth beginning to move over hers once more. She receives the kiss gratefully even as she struggles not to get her hopes up: he’s obviously still attracted to her. Obviously still feels something for her. But it is it enough for him to want to bridge the gap between them? Permanently?

She holds her breath, awaiting his next move, and a shock of electricity and hope surges through her when she feels him begin to probe her mouth with his tongue. It's a lazy exploration on his part, borne of being lost in the sensation of finally being back where he belongs. His eyes are still closed but he can't stop kissing her. Can't stop tasting her. Nor can he help giving voice to the emotion that's bubbling in his chest. "I love you, MacKenzie," he murmurs against her lips. "I love you." He kisses her cheek and inhales deeply as he presses his nose against her skin. She tastes like warm honey and joy and love and though he's never been able to account for the profound emotion she inspires in him he's never been more grateful for it. She makes him feel alive and cared for and adored as no one else ever has. He moves his head slightly so he can kiss the delicate skin beneath her ear as he continues to rock her, swaying, whispering endearments and holding her as closely as he can. He's drunk on her now, so much so that he can't stop murmuring "Love you, love you, love you" into her ear, a sleepy, hypnotic incantation. He can't makes sense of it, this complete about face, but he knows he's powerless against it. A dam has broken inside him and everything he's ever felt for her is rushing over him in deep, cleansing waves. 

Her eyes fill with tears and it's only when he feels her clutch his shoulders that he finds the strength to tilt his head back and open his. And what she sees makes her heart thud wildly in her chest. It's him. The man she lost. The man she was afraid she'd never see again. His expression is tender and loving and dreamy and everything she's dreamt of since the moment he sent her into exile.

"I love you, too," she says, stroking the hair back from his forehead. As she speaks he can, for the first time in years, feel the truth of her words. He can feel it as strongly as he’s ever felt anything in his life and the view from here, from the soft, sweet, enveloping cocoon of their relationship lets him know he’s safe with her. He feels it in every cell of his body and that once again, at long last, he's found his home. In her.

He kisses her again and gently lowers her to the floor, setting her on her feet as he extends his hand to her.

She grasps it tightly as he leads her to his bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you have an extra toothbrush?” she asks as he leads her to his bed. They stop and she wraps her arms around her torso, suddenly shy.

“Second drawer,” he tells her, pointing to the bathroom. His hand rests on her upper arm and as she starts to move off, he lets his fingers trail down her forearm and to her fingertips. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze as they separate. He watches her go, appreciating the beauty of her naked form.

He feels like he’s been hit on the head with a hammer—completely concussed. As he goes to sit on the bed a question floats to the surface. _What does this mean?_ He jumped off a cliff tonight and there’s no going back. Not that he wants to. Exactly. Because what just happened reminded him of what he feels for her. Not thinks— _feels_. Until MacKenzie McHale had burst into his life, he’d felt as if he had spent the entirety of it half asleep, just waiting to meet her so he could truly begin to live. And he had. Oh, he had. And it had been wonderful … until it wasn’t. And then it was a misery so black there were days he couldn’t get out of bed.

Which is why he is now … suddenly … a tiny bit afraid. Sure (odds are) he’s crazy in love with her, but can he count on her? For the long haul? He casts back, trying to remember exactly what she’d said to him tonight. Although she’d said she loved him, she hadn’t said she wouldn’t lie in the future or that she wouldn’t keep things from him.

And that’s the sticking point, isn’t it?

His reverie is interrupted when she comes out of the bathroom and approaches the bed. She stands awkwardly beside it a moment and it takes him a second to clue into the source of her unease: she’s waiting for an invitation.

“Do you want something to sleep in or …” he asks.

He has no idea what she sleeps in these days or whether she wants to revert back to the nakedness of yore. He supposes it’s his fault she assumes the reason he’s asking is because he wants her to put something on.

“Do you want me to?” she asks, a little uncertainly, hating the lingering imbalance of power in their relationship. They used to be equals and what just happened should have returned them to that state, but it doesn’t feel that way.

“No,” he says quickly. “I want you to be comfortable—that’s all. I just wasn’t sure if you still like to sleep …”

“Naked?”

“Yeah.”

She looks at him uncertainly. “I don’t. By myself. But with you … I’d like to. As long as I’m not the only one, I mean.”

 _Jesus Christ, this is awkward_ , he thinks. On the one hand, they know each other so well. On the other, they’ve been apart for three years. Mind-blowing sex isn’t going to erase that.

He gives her a little smile. “Count me in,” he says, pleased (despite the awkwardness) for no good reason except that in a few minutes she’s going to be coiled naked around his body with her head on his chest. He’s missed that more than he could say.

“Still like this side?” he says, patting the opposite side of the bed.

“Yes,” she says.

“It’s all yours,” he tells her.

“Okay, thanks.”

She lifts the coverlet and climbs under it, laying on her back.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells her, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.

“Okay.” She watches him disappear into the bathroom and turns on her side so she’ll be facing him when he gets back. As she waits, she bites her lower lip, worrying and thinking back over the last half hour. She’s suffering from whiplash. Twenty minutes ago, he’d been a statue refusing her kisses and not two minutes later he’d become a wild man, making love to her with all the ferocity, tenderness and passion she’d despaired of ever seeing again.

Now, he’s … what? What are his intentions? _Are we together now?_

She turns on her back and looks around. His bedroom is cool and antiseptic, not warm and welcoming as it had been in the apartment they’d practically shared. Although she’s somewhat reassured by the room’s sterility (after all, it suggests the absence of a steady, nurturing female in his life), she knows for a fact there _have_ been other women. Like Danielle. She wonders just how many have shared his bed and his kisses over the last three years. She turns on her side and plucks an errant thread from the coverlet.

_Then again, does it matter? He’s made his choice. He wants me._

Doesn’t he?

Well …

… he said so.

OK, maybe not explicitly, but he _did_ say he loved her. And nowhere in those repeated utterances did she sense a ‘but.’

Still, there’s something about his current behavior that makes her very …

…. _very_

… uneasy.

She does her best to shake it off and tells herself she just has to have faith—in him and in them.

When he re-enters the room, she lifts up his side of the blanket to welcome him. He settles in beside her, puts his arm under his head and scoots closer to her.

“Hi,” he says, staring into her eyes with an expression she can’t name. She used to be far better at diagnosing his moods but now she can only guess. She thinks he seems nervous, shy.

“Hi,” she answers, trying to tamp down the butterflies in her stomach. She’s acutely aware that she’s naked in his bed, that he’s also naked, and that exactly nothing between them has been settled. What does what just happened mean … practically speaking? Does it mean he wants a life with her? And whatever his decision is, is he going to tell her?

A wave of defiance rises within her as she wrestles with the question. He did this. He broke them. He’s put up every barrier he possibly could between them and now maybe ( _maybe_ ) he’s changed his mind. She tells herself she can’t be so willing to sell herself short, to jump in, to try to heal the breach between them. Let him come to her for a change. Surely, she’s earned that. And if he really loves her, he will.

She holds her breath, waiting, but he remains silent—her proximity and the novelty of the situation having rendered him mute. Never in a million years would he have imagined she’d be lying naked in his bed right now, and he’s not quite sure how he feels about it. Not because he’s changed his mind (exactly) but because she’d been Enemy Number One until thirty minutes ago and he’s accustomed to thinking of her in a particular and—let’s face it—unflattering—way. On the one hand, she looks the same as the woman he’d adored. And on the other she looks the same as the woman he’s been doing his damnedest to hold at arm’s length for the last three weeks. Or is it three years? _Doesn't matter,_ he decides—whenever the hell you want to start the clock.

He doesn’t know what's going on in his head so he lets the silence fill the space between them as he tries to break it down: having sex with her and admitting he loves her (which he does, doesn’t he?) doesn’t change everything. At least, not automatically. And apparently not immediately. But he’s already hurt her enough, so he decides he’ll just have to have faith that in time his head will catch up with his heart.

She’s obviously on guard, so he supposes it’s up to him to move past the pleasantries. He bends forward to give her a light peck on the lips because even if all his alarm bells are going off he made a commitment to her tonight. If he wasn’t prepared to follow through, he should have remained a statue. _Why DID I submit?_ he wonders. Was it simply because a man only has so much willpower before the tank is empty? Clearly, on the most elemental level he wanted it (and her), and if his capitulation shocks him, he recognizes that probably has less to do with the incongruity of the act than with how detached he is from that part of himself: he’s a man who lives in his head and suppresses that which isn’t convenient. Who the hell knows what else is going on in there?

But … it’s difficult to be around someone who holds the power to destroy you. Someone you try not to love because you know that your love for them could be your undoing. It’s that which is so terrifying, because she very nearly _did_ destroy him. Yet somehow … just now … she’d reached through his defenses and made contact with (presumably) his deepest desires. The problem is that now he’s back in his head again and he doesn’t know how to get out.

Although his brain is running on two parallel tracks he decides to express the thoughts of only one line. He reaches out a finger to stroke her cheek. “I’m really glad you’re here, Mac.” And it’s true. He is, actually. Even if he feels like his world and everything in it is upside down (or is it right-side up)? He can feel a headache coming on.

Of course, she knows him too well not to understand that isn’t all of it. As she gazes into his blue eyes, she tries to work out how to respond. “But you’re not sure,” she says finally, and her heart is pounding so loudly she’s sure he can hear it.

He opens his mouth to speak. And then says, “I … I think I am.”

She freezes. _Oh my God._ _What the fuck am I supposed to do with that information?!_ Where does _that_ leave her, besides unbelievably pissed and hurt? _Hang on, hang on_ , she thinks as she tries to talk herself down. _Let's look at this rationally._ _Him thinking he’s glad I'm here is better than him thinking he isn’t._

 _Except … except ... it_ isn't.

_Not really._

_Because it still mean_ s he isn't sure.

 _Fuck._ _How should I respond? Should I leave? Should I wait for him to figure it out? Should I give him the benefit of the doubt?_

 _Screw that,_ her ego retorts. _He doesn't know what the hell he wants. Are you going to tolerate this nonsense? Have you NO self-respect?!_

 _Well ..._ she tries to reason with herself. _He thinks he’s sure. Which means he wants to be. And I can accept that, can't I? I’ve been in love with him for years and this is all new to him. Sort of. I can give him some time to sort things out in his head. Right?_

 _Sure,_ comes the response in her head. _If you don't mind being a sad, desperate, pathetic sack of manure._

 _Oh God. Are those really my only two choices?_ _But I want him. I need him. And he loves me. He said so. And we were so good together. Surely he remembers that. Maybe … maybe any second now, he’ll come to his senses and we’ll be fine. Besides, w_ _e've come so far tonight. I can't let this get in our way. I won't. I refuse to._

She takes a deep breath. She'll just focus on the import of his words (that is, his _professed_ desired state) instead of the tepidness of his response.

The problem is that she can feel the anger starting to build and she's fairly certain she needs to vent a bit of it or risk doing something far worse, like saying something that will send him scurrying into the hinterlands. If she can release a few of her wounded feelings she can get back on track, back on the path of reminding him that what's between them is too precious to discard. She pauses.

_Should I acknowledge what he just said?_

_Probably._

_How?_

_Innocuously. In a way that doesn't put him on the defensive._

_Okay._

Except that when she tries to find the words, the ones that come to mind are anything _but_ innocuous. Suddenly, she's consumed with anger. _How dare he? How dare he be so pig-headed it's cost us years of happiness?_ Her years in exile have been more painful than she can express and if he’s suddenly willing to be with her _now_ (however lukewarm his devotion), it means that pain was a waste of time. Not only that, he went on to date legions of other women, many of whom she suspects have been right here in this room. Not only does it mean he betrayed their love, it means he’s been attracted to people who aren’t her. Attracted enough to people who aren't her to get an _erection_. The thought of him using that erection to … well, she doesn’t want to think about it because it literally makes her ill.

She waffles. Does she dare say it? Can she safely express the pain and humiliation his callous behavior has brought her? Have they reached a point in the last twenty-five minutes where it’s suddenly safe for her to make demands on him? To be completely honest with him?

Well, why the hell not? If they’re doing this, they’re doing this. Besides, she needs to vent.

“Perhaps you’d be better off with Danielle. Maybe _she’d_ be able to inspire feelings more powerful than ‘ _I think I am_.’”

It’s a non-sequitur but the fact that the temperature in the room has suddenly become icy cold tells him everything he needs to know about where this is going. Still, he’s not quite quick enough to conceal his bewilderment. “Danielle? Are you kidding?”

“Or perhaps one of your _other_ women.”

He looks at her blankly. “What other women?”

“The ones you’ve been parading around our newsroom, Will. The ones you’ve dated since we broke up.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. _Seriously._ If you really love me, how could you do that to me? How could you cast me out and ignore me for three years and … and … _take up with other women_? How many have there been? How many _other women_ have shared your bed in the time we’ve been apart?”

Her voice is shrill and she knows she sounds like a harpy, but she doesn’t care. He loves her, he said so. Then how the fuck could he do what he did? “How many, Will?” she repeats.

He looks at her and she can see that he’s suddenly (if inexplicably) amused. “You’d be surprised.”

“Twenty? Thirty? A _hundred_?”

“Wow,” he laughs. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me.”

“I _know_ you, Will. I know your … _appetites_. So how many were there? At least you’re fastidious,” she mutters. “… so I don’t have to worry about STDs … unless that’s changed … did you always wear a condom?” He hadn’t just now but she figures that was special circumstances (when they were together before, he said she was the only woman with whom he hadn’t). They hadn’t been ready to start a family yet, so she’d been on the pill then but she isn’t now, and she wonders if he’s guessed that.

“You think I’m someone who’s led around by my dick?”

“You’re the most virile, sexual man I’ve ever known, Will,” she bites out. “Of course, you’re led around by your dick.”

He laughs. “You are the _only_ one who thinks that, MacKenzie. _Ever_. Everyone else thinks I’m a wet dishrag.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Historically, I have been. Until I met you. So there.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you still haven’t answered my question. How many women have you slept with in the last three years?”

He has to admit he loves it when she’s jealous and so, inordinately pleased, he gives her a long, slow smile.

“Zero.”

_“What?”_

“ _Zero._ Those other women … look. I admit it. I was trying to get a rise out of you. But the truth is, I haven’t been with anyone since we split up.”

“You haven’t had sex in _three years_?!”

“Nope.”

“How is that possible?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you’re a wild man, Will. A stallion. A … lustful, glorious _male_.”

He shrugs. “With you, maybe. Not with anyone else. And not in the last three years.”

“You can’t be serious. I have a Google alert. I saw _pictures_ of you online. You’re constantly going out on dates.”

“So? They were mainly set up by my publicist.”

“You didn’t sleep with any of them? Why?”

“Because I was looking for what I had with you. Jesus, Mac. The moment I met you I was _gone_.” And with that thought he starts to feel a little more at ease. Because that is the truth of the matter. The _fact_ of the matter. He’s never felt anything close to what he feels for her for anyone else which is a clue he can’t ignore. “I haven’t felt that way before or since. Once I knew that existed I didn’t want to settle for anything less.”

“What you _felt_ for me. Past tense.” (Apparently, the sniping, vindictive harpy is back.)

He shakes his head. “Present tense,” he reassures her. But it’s belied by his next statement which just slips out (doesn’t it?). “I think.”

Instantly, she’s raising the coverlet and getting to her feet. She’s humiliated herself enough tonight. She will _not_ beg him to take her back.

He bolts upright and the bed linens fall to his hips. “Where are you going?” he says.

“Home,” she says over her shoulder.

“Why?”

She whirls around to face him, her eyes blazing. “Being with someone who only half wants to be with you is hard on the ego, Will. I don’t deserve that. Not even from you.” She bends to pick up her discarded panties and walks out of the room. He vaults out of bed and rushes after her. 

“Mac,” he says, closing the distance between them and putting his warm palm on her back. “I don’t want you to go.”

She turns around to look at him and he sees the anger is gone; now there is only pain in her eyes and it makes him feel like shit.

“But you don’t really want me to stay, do you?' she asks him, her voice quavering. "I’m tired, Will. I’m tired of being the only one willing to fight for us. You know what we have. I shouldn’t have to do all the heavy lifting.”

She feels utterly trapped and utterly alone and suddenly, she can feel hot tears threatening to spill over her eyelashes. She hates herself for being so weak, for being so completely unable to get over him. No matter how hard she tries or how many times she berates herself for it, it’s simply not within her power to do so. She feels like a mosquito trapped alive in amber: there’s no way out, only the prospect of spending the rest of her life longing for a man whose affections are unreliable. Even now, all she can do is stand there stupidly, clutching her crumpled, discarded clothing and waiting for him to decide her fate.

He feels horrible and guilty and even though he still has no idea what the hell is going on in his own head he can’t stand to see her miserable. It’s a realization that startles him, not least because up until an hour ago that’s exactly what he _had_ wanted. She’d been his opponent. An enemy to be vanquished.

And now she’s … what?

The answer comes to him as he stares at her. _She’s the woman I love._ And at that moment he knows something important has shifted. Where it will take him is anyone’s guess but her pained expression tells him his actions have consequences in the real world. He has to figure a way out of this. He’s obliged to. For both their sakes.

He reaches out and takes her hand, trying to ignore how absolutely insane it feels to be standing naked in front of her. Familiar but overwhelmingly weird. _What the hell has happened in the last thirty minutes?_ No matter. He’s hurt her (again) and he hates it.

“You’re right,” he says gently. “You shouldn’t. So, let me.”

“How?”

“Come back to bed,” he tells her. He glances at her chest ( _completely_ by accident, honest!) and once again he’s struck by how completely in awe of her he is—of her physical form, certainly—but also of her very self. She’s as beautiful (inside and out) as anything or anyone he has ever seen. Most importantly, something within her is tethered to something within him and it makes him feel warm and at peace and just … what the hell is it, anyway? _Connected_? Part of a unit, of something bigger, more important than himself? He couldn’t express it if he wanted to but she has always moved him, whether he wanted her to or not.

The direction of his gaze makes her keenly aware of her own nudity and he’s disappointed when she brings her hands up and wraps her arms around her torso.

“Why don’t we put some clothes on?” she suggests. “We can talk out here.”

He shakes his head. No. She doesn’t understand, can’t possibly understand that the whole nudity thing is the secret sauce in this debacle. That the truth only manifests itself when they’re skin-to-skin. “No. Come back to bed,” he repeats, gesturing to the bedroom. “Please?”

“Why?”

He sighs. “Because I need to be close to you. Physically. It’s … like a truth serum.”

“A what?”

“I’ll explain it in a minute. Come on,” he insists, tugging her back toward his bedroom. She trails behind, utterly confused. _A truth serum?_ Still, she allows him to lift the coverlet for her when they get to the bed.

He stands there like a sentry, waiting for her to climb in, and when she does, he places the blanket carefully over her body and walks to his side. He climbs in, scoots close to her, awkwardly wraps his arms around her back and pulls her body toward him. He winces when the top of her head hits his chin but ignores it in favor of pressing his nose into her hair and breathing deeply. The scent is familiar, distinctively her. And not … unwelcome … just …

_… bizarre._

He wants to talk to her, but the tension and anxiety are so thick in the air he’s paralyzed under the weight of them. Neither speaks for several agonizing moments, and he searches his mind frantically for something to say to break the silence.

But it soon becomes too much for her and once again she starts trying to disengage herself from his arms. “I should really go,” she says.

His grip around her back tightens. “Wait. Please. I just … this is …” _… what?_ How the hell can he explain it to her when he doesn’t understand it himself? He falls silent and brings his head down to stare into her eyes. _They’re the eyes of the woman he adored_.

Then why does he feel so detached from her?

From himself?


	4. Chapter 4

He hasn’t the first clue as to what the hell is going on in his head, but he knows she’s about to bolt so he decides to try to distract them both: he kisses her. It’s a light peck, but it feels good, so he does it again and closes his eyes, willing himself to just feel, as she’d instructed him to do earlier. He _likes_ kissing her. His body likes kissing her. His emotions, too. It feels natural and right. Solid.

She kisses him back and when she reaches out to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck he gives a soft, pleased exhalation of breath. _That feels good_. He’s missed being so close to someone. Specifically, being in a relationship with someone (no, that's not right—he's missed being in a relationship with _her_ ). He remembers how wonderful it had been to know that even as he went about his day, checking things off his to-do list, she would be waiting for him at the end of it with open arms and an open heart.

He’s missed her nourishing presence more than he could say. If her brilliance and beauty had been the things that had struck him most when he’d first met her, it had been her nurturing tendencies that had sealed the deal. In her own cosmopolitan way, MacKenzie was old-fashioned. He came from an old-fashioned background himself and so, the thing that he took for granted with her, and which she perhaps took for granted with him, was a certain kind of courtesy and behavior and ritual and order. He’d never found those things in such abundance with other women, but they were there with MacKenzie. The home she’d made with him had been an oasis: beautiful, orderly and welcoming. She’d been close to her grandmother growing up and she just knew things about the moment, about graciousness, about service, about hospitality, about generosity—that she’d learned from her grandmother. She’d inherited her sense of warmth and kindness and it was totally natural. It was in the skin. It wasn’t just something that she dragged up or had to look for, it was absolutely natural for her.

It was in the way she put a plate on the table or poured the wine or made him feel at ease. Indeed, her nourishment of his person had been like nothing he’d ever experienced: she’d always been attuned to him, had always anticipated his needs and desires (just as he’d anticipated hers), sometimes even before he himself had known he’d had them. Of course, she’d had that other side too, the side that came out when she drank wine and danced and became wild and beautiful and threatening and dangerous. She was sexy. Unbelievably attractive. In a way that made his brain short out every time he looked at her or held her in his arms or danced with her or made love to her.

But there had been something else that had attracted him to her, something that aroused his most protective instincts: that single, niggling seed of self-doubt she seemed to carry within her. Not about the work—no, professionally, she was fearless, but somehow, she seemed to feel that personally, she may not be enough. If that conviction created a certain amount of suffering for her, the attractive side of it was that it invited a great deal of love from other people—from him, in particular. He’d bolster her confidence and she would shine, and he would bathe in her light. It wasn’t false: he’d always felt she was brilliant and supremely competent and didn’t give herself enough credit and the entire time they’d been together he’d taken the mantle of her self-esteem upon himself. He’d made it his mission to convince her of what he himself believed of her: that she was simply wonderful. Amazing.

It occurs to him now that while he’d once been her fiercest protector … somehow … over the last three years, certainly over the last few weeks, his disapproval had become the instrument she’d used to bludgeon herself.

And he’d encouraged it.

The realization makes his stomach clench in protest. _Oh, Mac. I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry._

His kisses grow more passionate as he tries not only to make up for his callous behavior but also to catalogue the sensations she has always aroused in him: peace, a kind of tranquility. And once again he’s struck by just how _good_ it feels to kiss her. It feels natural. Right. Emotionally fulfilling. He’s shared a few kisses with other women over the years, but he never _felt_ anything for them. Not like what he’d felt for her from the moment he met her. She’d made him feel complete in a way no one else ever had.

God, he’s missed that.

 _No_ , he corrects himself. He’s missed _her_.

That has to count for something, right? Shouldn’t it count for everything? The phrase, _I love you_ floats to the surface of his brain but it wouldn’t be right to say it again just yet. Because he still hasn’t figure out what’s holding him back _._

He gives her one last lingering kiss and when he tilts his head back to look at her she returns his gaze apprehensively. She still doesn’t have the first idea about what’s going on in his head.

“What are you thinking?” she says finally. Her voice is quiet, her tone uncertain.

 _How to say it?_ He’s a fucking idiot, that much is obvious. But how to explain how detached he is from his own psyche? So much so that sometimes it feels as if it belongs to someone else? He reminds himself to feel, to just _feel._ But feeling is one thing. Verbalizing it is another. Especially when he knows damned well it won’t be what she wants to hear. But he is where he is, so he decides he’ll just do his best to be honest and hope she understands.

He raises his hand to caress her cheek and stares into her eyes. “When we split up, I buried it,” he says slowly. “And I’ve spent the last three years doing everything I could to make sure it stayed buried. But what just happened … it was … a …” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “... _volcanic_ ... eruption …no ... it was ... a ... _tear_ … in the fabric of the universe.”

The preposterous comparison raises her eyebrows so high she’s sure they’re about to touch her hairline. Still, while he knows he sounds ridiculous, he also knows he speaks nothing but the truth. “Seriously. Obviously … I wanted it. Fundamentally, I wanted it.” He sighs. “And it was wonderful. It felt right. Solid. But I’m back in my head now, and it’s gonna take a minute for my brain to catch up.”

She looks at him for a moment before responding. “But you want it to?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you. I must.”

_Oh God._

She starts trying to free herself from his arms, but he holds her fast.

“Wait. That came out wrong. I _do_ love you. I _did_ love you _._ Mac, I was crazy in love with you then. And the second I saw you standing in the bullpen three weeks ago I knew nothing had changed. But … it’s not as simple as it used to be,” he says helplessly. “Because I’ve spent the last three years telling myself that what we had was a lie. And even though what you told me tonight means that's not true, I’ve been clinging to the idea so long it’s hard to let it go. Even though what just happened must mean I want to.”

“God, Will,” she says, lifting the coverlet again and throwing it aside. “I’m not going to sit here and try to talk you into loving me. I thought that what we did would help you get in touch with how you really feel, but maybe the fact of the matter is you _don’t_ feel it. Not anymore. Maybe you _don’t_ love me. Maybe _that’s_ the truth.”

He grabs her arm. “No. That doesn’t feel like the truth. MacKenzie, please. Stay. If you leave, we’re going to lose all the progress we just made because I am so fucking detached from myself. So, bear with me. Please. While I work this out.”

“You’re asking too much of me.”

He pulls her back down into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just … it’s a mind fuck, okay? Thirty minutes ago, I was convinced you were Enemy Number One. But obviously … another part of me doesn’t think so. And even if I don’t fully understand it right now, I’d be stupid to ignore whatever it is that my subconscious is trying to tell me. So … I want to figure out what that means. And I can’t do that if you leave. Because being with you … being so close to you … physically … I think it connects me to the part I’d buried. So … can I just … can we just …”

“What?”

“Can I just hold you?”

She doesn’t answer but neither does she attempt to get up, so he takes that as a _yes_. He tugs her down again and she doesn’t resist because she has never been able to resist him. Not for long, anyway.

He closes his eyes and presses his nose against her skin. “I like this," he murmurs. "It feels good. You feel good.”

“You sound like Forrest Gump.”

“These ideas are half-formed, okay? Nascent. Just give me a second.” He closes his eyes, trying to concentrate, trying to tap into what the hell is going on in his head. In his body. “Being with you. Like this. Naked. It’s … it’s like a divining rod. I can feel … what I used to feel for you. As a memory. But not … not just as a memory. It’s current. Present tense.”

He presses his lips into her hair and inhales deeply.

“I love you,” he says, startling himself. “See? That just popped out. Of its own accord. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

MacKenzie can barely restrain herself from leaping out of the bed. What are you _DOING_? she thinks. Does he really expect her to listen to this stream-of-consciousness claptrap? But she remains silent, hoping he’ll get through whatever the hell he has to get through and meet her on the other side.

"What else?” he asks himself, trying to will his subconscious into coughing up some truth that will set him free. “What’s holding me back?”

“Are sure you need me for this? You’re talking to yourself.”

“Yes. Yes. Just hang on. It’s coming. It’s coming.” He thinks about it. He’s attracted to her. He’s obviously—at his core—in love with her. What is it, then? What’s keeping him from jumping in with both feet? He closes his eyes as memories of the way it used to feel for him, the way it used to be between them, are bubbling up inside him, trying to break free. He gives himself permission to go with them, turning them over in his mind while at the same time trying to view them clinically. Dispassionately.

He suspects that what the problem is now, as it has always been, is that he loves and needs her far too much. He’d tossed himself into their relationship with his heart wide open, holding nothing back from her. His entire being had been dependent on her and she had failed him (or so he’d believed until forty-five minutes ago). He's terrified of making the same mistake again. Even so … does he regret that she forced her way past his barriers and extracted these violent emotions from him? In truth, no, he does not. He can see now that he’s been hiding from his attachment to her, indulging only his grief and his anger. But in his defense, hiding is all that he’s been able to do. It’s what he needed to do to keep himself from being overwhelmed by sadness and regret.

He tries to sort out what exactly it is that he wants to express to her. Is it that in opening the door to a scant bit of light he now sees he’s been living in darkness? Or is it that he thinks he _might_ be ready to stop hiding but he’s just not sure it’s safe to come out yet? He thinks he might be able to acknowledge the fierce desire he has to be made whole again (along with his sneaking suspicion that can only happen with her), but then what?

What can he do to honor that need and do right by both it _and_ her while still protecting himself?

He takes a deep breath and there it is: _trust._ The word floats to the surface. And then … _Can I really trust you?_

His eyes pop open and he peers into her face. The purpose of catching the lies of the past is to stop the untruths of the future, so he has to be completely honest here. They both do. If there’s any chance of moving forward.

“We jumped off a cliff tonight, Mac,” he says softly. “And it’s like I landed in a tree just below the ledge. I can either let myself fall all the way down or I can try to climb back up and over the ledge. To safety.”

“I see,” she says, obviously wounded.

“No. I don’t want to. I mean, I don’t think I want to. But I need to be sure.”

“About what?”

“Can I trust you?” he whispers in a voice so tremulous, so naked her heart seizes in her chest. “Can I _really_ trust you?”

She stares at him, heart pounding. She wants to reassure him; if he’s willing to put himself out there again for her, for _them_ , my God. What would that mean? It would mean everything. Because he’s what she wants. He’s what she _has_ wanted since the moment she fell in love with him. It’s a serious question, though, so she answers it will all the conviction she feels. “Yes. You’re safe with me, Will. I’ll never hurt you again. Not in that way.”

He relaxes. “Okay. That … helps. But I need a couple more things. If you can give them to me.”

“What?”

“I need you to promise me something. And if you can’t, well … I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. Which is not to say that I don’t want to. I do. I think. Which is why I really hope you can. But … I also need you to be honest, you know? And not just agree with me because of what I just said.”

“What is it?”

“One, if we do this, if I let myself fall all the way down, I need you to promise me that you will never lie to me or keep anything from me again. On _any subject_ , no matter how small. I mean, if you hear someone wants to throw me a surprise party, you need to ruin the surprise. Are you willing to do that?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

“Okay. And two, I need you to promise that you will never be involved with anyone else—emotionally or sexually— _ever_. For as long as we’re together." 

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Not because she thinks it's an idiotic demand but because it's impossible for her to be involved with anyone even when they're NOT together. But she won't say that, so she settles for, “I promise,” instead.

He stares at her as if trying to discern whether she’s telling the truth. Or more to the point, whether she’s being honest with herself.

“Are you sure? I mean, I'm older than you are, I’m going to get decrepit faster than you are … are you really going to want to be stuck with an old man when there are younger, fitter models around? You’re not going to be tempted to stray?”

“No.”

"You're _sure_?" he insists.

His eyes are so, so blue and the way he’s looking at her, with trepidation and uncertainty and real fear makes hot tears prick at her eyes.

She swallows over the growing lump in her throat. “Quite.”

He stares at her. _Okay._ He can either take her at her word or … what? What other choice does he have when she’s lying naked next to him? On the one hand, he was _so_ _happy_ with her. So happy sometimes just being in her presence was enough to make him giddy. On the other, if it blows up in his face again ... my God. Just the thought ... _fuck. Fuck._

The voice of his subconscious (or is it his deepest desires?) suddenly makes itself heard: _It isn't complicated. Just do it. Have faith—in her and in us. Do it. Do it._ Easy enough, right?

“Okay,” he says, defeated. “Okay. Well, I … I guess I’m in, then.”

She blinks, astonished. That’s about as tepid a declaration as she could ever imagine and it’s insufficient. God, is she really so desperate, so pathetic that she’s willing to take such a lukewarm proclamation?

_NO._

She’s up and on her feet again in an instant. It happens so quickly he doesn’t have time to argue.

“Mac, _stop_.”

“No, Will. _You_ stop. I refuse to be with a man who isn’t sure he wants me. It doesn’t feel good. _This_ doesn’t feel good.”

“What would make it feel good?”

“Seriously?”

He nods.

She’s flabbergasted. _How could someone as smart as you are be so dense?_ She speaks slowly, as if to a child. “Your certainty. About us.”

 _Fine._ Maybe it _was_ impolitic to give voice to his doubts but doesn’t she deserve to know the truth?

“If certainty is what you’re after, I’m not going to feel any more of it if you leave,” he tells her.

She stares down at him, incredulity and hurt etched in her features.

“I have _ached_ for you, Will. I’ve practically bled for you.” She bends down, grabs her panties off the floor and starts skinning into them. “I accomplished what I set out to do tonight: I made you feel. The rest is up to you.”

She turns and walks out of the bedroom.

He bolts out of bed and follows her into the living room.

"What do you want from me, MacKenzie?!" he asks. "I told you—I'm _in._ "

"I've seen more enthusiasm in a hostage video," she says angrily as she jerks her bra straps over her shoulders. 

"You're wrong. You're _wrong,_ " he tells her, but something stops him from closing the distance between them. He halts five feet away from her and watches, paralyzed with indecision as she grabs her skirt off the floor, pulls it over her hips and yanks the zipper up.

The next moment something inside him breaks free and he is compelled by a force external to his own will to walk over to where she’s standing. She looks up at his approach and freezes, bent forward, midway between putting her breasts in the cups. Her breath catches in her throat as he raises his hands and gently cups both breasts in his palms. He thrills at the weight of them, at their softness, their connection to the woman he feels at this moment is quite literally the other half of his soul.

He has no idea why he’s doing what he’s doing. He simply must.

Warm, gentle fingers stroke her nipples, sending a shockwave of electricity throughout both their bodies and he bends forward to kiss her earlobe.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, his breath hot in her ear. “Please.” The words are forced from his throat, as if he’s a marionette on a string.

She closes her eyes as he kisses her neck and fights the urge to give in to him. And then something inside her, something deep inside her starts screaming at her to get out of there. To leave with the scrap of self-respect he’s left her. He’s still not certain of his feelings for her—she can feel it, even if he _is_ kissing her—and she’s had enough. Enough of his indecision. Enough of his vacillating. She _needs_ him to want her; her self-esteem (at least where he's concerned) depends on it. She needs him to want to dive headfirst into her—to be compelled, no— _required_ by everything he feels for her to grab her and never let her go. _Which is exactly what drives HER toward HIM._

She remembers the way he used to look at her—as if she hung the moon— _all the time._ She remembers going to parties and feeling his eyes on her as she made her way through the crowd and moments later he'd appear at her elbow just to whisper _I love you_ or _You're beautiful_ or _When the hell can we get out of here?_ in her ear. She remembers watching him good-naturedly fend off the advances of one beautiful woman after another, relaxed and completely impervious to their charms, only to catch her eye a moment later and give her a sweet, knowing smile, as if to reassure her that those women had nothing on her and that she was the only person in the room that mattered. Why? Because he'd loved _her_. Because he'd been _happy_ with her. She wants that back. She wants to be adored. As she adores him _._

Equally.

_Is that too fucking much to ask?!_

“No, Will,” she says, pushing him away. “It feels like you still don’t know what you want and you’re trying to talk yourself into something. I want your whole heart,” she says fiercely. “ _All_ of it. And I won’t accept anything less.”

He doesn’t respond and she shakes her head as she finishes putting on her bra and blouse. Then she steps into her shoes and picks up her bag without looking at him. She calls the elevator and they both stand their silently, awkwardly, as she waits for it to arrive. Eventually, it does, and she steps into it.

The reality of her retreating form finally rouses him to speak. “Mac, don’t go.”

She sees the words leave his lips but he doesn’t make a move.

Which tells her everything she needs to know.

He watches the doors close between them.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Suddenly, the prospect of spending the rest of his life alone and separated from the satiety he’d felt being skin-to-skin with her is unbearable. He feels hollow. Bereft. And he knows he can’t let her think he doesn’t care or that she’s in this alone. He steps forward towards the elevator and is just about to press the call button when he realizes that if he does, he’ll be giving the security guard an eyeful and he’s pretty sure the man could do without having _that_ image seared into his brain (not to mention the fact that that it might end up in _Page Six_ ).

He races into his bedroom, pulls on a t-shirt and pants and looks around wildly for his shoes. _Where the hell are they?_ Crap. Still scanning the room, he finally spies his slippers and shoves his feet into them. Then he hightails it to the elevator, hits the call button and waits impatiently for the car to come back up.

He’s out on the sidewalk in less than three minutes but she’s gone.

He looks up and down the street. It’s filled with honking cars, a few unsavory-looking locals and some tourists who look at him in surprise since he’s not wearing his usual disguise. Ignoring their stares, he scans the sidewalk in either direction, hoping against hope to see MacKenzie’s lithe form making its way down (or up) the street. Then he shakes his head at his stupidity. What is he thinking? Of course, she took a cab and thank goodness did because God knows what might happen to her in this town after midnight.

 _Fine._ He’ll catch up with her at her place. He just has to get his wallet and change his shoes.

He gives a self-conscious wave to the security guard (who undoubtedly thinks he’s crazy) as he makes his way back inside. He stumbles out of the elevator into his apartment, grabs his wallet and is just stepping into his shoes when it hits him.

 _He doesn’t know her address._ And why would he? They haven’t exactly been on friendly terms and if she’d had a housewarming party he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have gotten an invitation.

He sighs. A phone call will have to do.

He picks up his phone and dials her number. He isn’t surprised when she doesn’t answer (rule number one when dealing with recalcitrant boyfriends: ignore their calls). He’s just putting his phone back down when his gaze falls on the picture of the two of them she’d forgotten in her haste to escape.

He bends over, picks it up and stares at it. He’d been so happy then. So blissfully happy then. He’d never even conceived of being that happy with someone.

He sighs and smooths his fingers over her face. The choice is clear: he can either take a chance and risk another failure in the hopes of regaining love and true happiness, or continue on in a dispassionate, sedate existence, never again to know the fire of life and love and passion. In short, he can either dive in or get the hell out. If he dives in, he can get his happiness back. If he gets out, he’s condemning himself to a life of misery, of eventually having to watch her move on with someone else. When looked at from that perspective, the choice is simple: diving in is his only option.

He sets the photo down on a table and walks over to his linen closet and rummages around in the back until his fingers find what he’s looking for: a photo album he hasn’t looked at in years. He takes it out, walks over to the couch, sits down and opens the album to the first page. He bites his lip as he stares at the first image: the photos are in chronological order and the first one had been taken two weeks after they’d started working together. She’s got her hand under her chin, her eyes crinkling with mirth as she stares at him while he’s just looking like the besotted ass he is. He distinctly remembers what he’d felt for her during those first few weeks. It had been a feeling of recognition so strong it had rocked him to his core. He’d felt, with absolute certainty, that she was the one for him. No, he hadn’t known her then, but did a lock need to know the history of its key before the door could be flung open?

He flips to another photo, taken a couple of months later by some enterprising paparazzo on their first official date. She’d been reluctant to mix her professional and personal lives, but after two months of not-so-subtle persuasion, Will had finally broken her down.

They’d been at some not-too-fancy restaurant and the photo had been snapped the moment Will reached across the table to take her hand. He studies her expression now and suddenly it’s obvious she’d been nervous. Shy. A little guarded. _Why didn’t I see it before?_ he wonders. Because he didn’t know her then. Not really. _Was she accepting that asshole’s calls then?_ he wonders. He shakes it off and goes to the next one.

As he stares at the images of their lives together (at work, on vacation, wandering around the city, with her family in the UK), he can’t help but notice that in ninety percent of them he’s staring at her with an openly besotted expression. Her expression matches his, but only in the later ones, the ones taken after they’d been together a few months. He flips to the back of the album, to the handful of pictures he hadn’t gotten around to properly inserting.

His heart seizes in his chest when he sees the penultimate one: it’s the picture she’d brought over tonight. He quickly passes over it to get to the last photo, taken a month later in Nebraska. She’s gazing at him with pure, unadulterated affection as he stares down into the face of his newborn nephew. There’s a difference in the way she’s looking at him in these photos. It’s with open, tender affection. No hesitation. Just love.

He closes the album and stares across the room, unseeing. She’d been telling the truth. Her guard wasn’t down in the beginning. The progression of her regard for him is evident in the photos.

_She loved me when we were together. As much as I loved her. Maybe not in the beginning, but later … later she did. Our affection was equal and I sent her away._

Maybe it _IS_ safe to come out of hiding now. Maybe he _can_ at last accept some of the things before him, including her love for him.

She’s his mate. His family. And he’s filled with shame that he’s been such a fucking idiot.

He has to make it right.


	5. Chapter 5

If he takes MacKenzie at her word—and he does—she actually _is_ the woman he'd thought she was when they were together. The other version—the one he's clutched close to his chest for the last three years—was the real pipedream. He feels sick that he could have gotten it so, so wrong. 

He looks at his watch: 1:00 AM. Impatiently, he taps his fingers on his knees until he figures she’s had enough time to make it across town in either direction. Once again, he dials her landline, and once again, there’s no answer. He waits another ten minutes (maybe she lives in Brooklyn?) and tries again, but when that yields no results he realizes he’s going to have to come up with a better plan. If he doesn’t, he’s going to lose an entire weekend with her and she’ll have 48 hours to continue nursing that well-deserved grudge against him.

A thought flutters to the surface: didn’t she make the entire staff add their contact information to some crappy emergency contact list? He vaguely remembers getting an email about it and promptly filing it under _Who gives a shit?_ but that list may now be his only hope.

He hauls himself off the couch, hotfoots it over to his desk and opens his laptop. As he waits the four minutes it takes to connect to the AWM network via VPN, he thrums his fingers some more. God, he hates technology. 

When he finally (finally) opens his email, he does a quick scan of his messages. _What the hell was it called?_ _Staff contact, staff emergency, staff … crap._ He wracks his brain, trying to remember when she’d sent it out. Finally, he locates the email, opens it and groans when he sees the details. The list contains everything _but_ an address. _Hmmmm. Kendra’s birthday is next week; should I get her a card? Focus, dammit._ _Focus._ He scans the page and realizes it does contain one interesting tidbit: the contact information for Jim Harper, MacKenzie’s protégé.

Jim Harper will know MacKenzie’s address.

 _Perfect_.

Except it's now 1:20 AM. Does this qualify as an emergency? For him it sure as hell does, but he suspects MacKenzie will be pissed if he wakes Jim up. He wrestles with his conscience for a moment as he weighs his options. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have that many, which makes his decision for him: _fuck it_. She’ll be less pissed than she will be if he doesn’t make an attempt to come to her.

He takes a deep breath and dials Jim’s number, trying to ignore the guilt roiling his stomach.

Jim picks up on the fourth ring, his voice heavy with sleep. “Jim Harper.”

“Jim, this is Will McAvoy. I’m sorry to call so late, but do you have MacKenzie’s address?”

Jim sits up in bed. “Uh, yeah … is she okay?”

“She is, but she …” _what? WHAT?_ “... she … uh …. she left her phone at the office and I’m afraid she might need it.”

Jim rubs the sleep from his eyes as he tries to make sense of the fact that the number two news anchor in America is calling him after midnight. “Did you call her landline?” he says groggily.

“What?” Will asks, trying to buy some time. _Shit._ He used to be a lot better at making up lies. “Uh … I did, yes. But … she didn’t answer.”

“She’s probably asleep,” Jim says.

“You’re right. But … uh … I want to drop it off, so ...”

Jim yawns. “I’m sure she’ll pick up tomorrow.”

_Fuck._

“Yeah, but …” Will sighs. He might as well come clean because apparently, Jim Harper isn’t as easy a mark as he’d hoped. “Look, I lied. We had a fight, she left, and I need to talk to her. I was just about to head over to her place when I realized I don’t know her address. I tried to call her, but she didn’t answer.”

Jim sits up straighter. “If she’s not answering your calls, there’s a reason. I’m sorry, Will, but she’s my friend first.”

“Jesus Christ, Jim, I’m not a stalker.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Look. I get it. And your loyalty is commendable, but I really need to see her. It’s _imperative_ that I see her. And if you need a reason it’s because she’s pissed and she thinks I don’t care or don’t care enough … which isn’t true … but the only way I can prove it to her is by going over there. _Now_.”

“Why is she pissed?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. If you want me to roll over on her, you need to tell me why.”

“Christ. _Fine._ We got back together tonight.”

 _Whoa._ _You forgave her?_ _She must be over the moon._ “You did?”

“Yes. And everything was going great until I stuck my foot in my mouth. I need to show her I’m willing to do my part. I hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And I have to make it up to her. _Tonight_. So will you please just give me her fucking address?”

Jim weighs his options. He’s only known Will for a few weeks but he knows MacKenzie is still in love with him, no matter how much she tries to hide it. So, if giving Will her address is going to make her happy …

“Just a second,” he says into the phone.

Will sighs with relief as Jim grabs his laptop off his nightstand and opens it. He scrolls through his contact list and is just about to read out MacKenzie’s address when he pauses. Maybe she doesn’t _want_ to see Will. Maybe it will piss her off if Will just shows up. MacKenzie’s been through a lot and the last thing she needs is Will McAvoy hurting her more than he already has. Still, if Will’s right and what she needs _is_ some grand declaration …

Jim closes his laptop and adjusts the phone against his ear. “You’re on the Upper West Side, right?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“I’m between you and her. Come pick me up and I’ll give the driver her address.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sure she’s going to be happy to see you. If she isn’t, you agree to leave with me. Deal?”

“Jim, that isn’t necessary. She’ll be happy to see me. She’ll be—”

“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. Do you agree to my terms or not?”

This is absolutely ridiculous. “ _Yes,_ ” Will sighs.

Jim gives Will his address. “See you in fifteen.”

“Fine.”

On his way to Jim's, Will can't stop thinking about the events of the evening. Her accusations. Everything she'd said to him. And by the time he pulls up outside Jim's apartment building he knows he should be crawling into hers on his hands and knees. Not just for the way he acted back then, but for the way he'd acted tonight. He'd been a selfish prick—expecting her to stand by, impervious, while he recited a litany of his doubts. He'd never thought of himself as self-absorbed before, but Christ if he hadn't discovered the truth tonight. 

Twenty minutes later—after a quick stop at a 24-hour florist near Jim’s house Will spied from the rear of the cab—he and Jim are ringing MacKenzie’s doorbell.

MacKenzie bolts out of bed at the sound. _What the hell is that?_ She hadn’t been asleep; she couldn’t because she’d been too busy mulling over the events of the evening. She rushes to the door, looks at the security camera and squints in confusion. _Will AND Jim?_ _What the hell is going on?_

Heart hammering, she buzzes them up and waits impatiently for them to arrive on her doorstep. As the elevator bell clangs in the hallway she glances down and realizes she’s wearing a skimpy tank top and running shorts. Both Jim and Will have seen her in less, so she supposes it doesn’t matter. She flings open the door and rushes out to meet them as they step out of the elevator.

“What’s wrong?” she blurts out.

“Nothing,” Will says, looking her up and down while Jim tries to avert his eyes. Will glances around at the empty hallway, feeling suddenly exposed. “Can we take this inside?”

“Sure,” she answers.

Will cocks his head at Jim but MacKenzie ignores the gesture because she refuses to make things easy for him. She hopes Jim will understand.

She leads them into her apartment and closes the door behind them. Putting her hands on her hips, she looks from one to the other.

“What’s going on?”

“I brought you these,” Will says, handing her the bouquet of flowers and trying to ignore Jim’s presence. “And my whole heart.”

Her eyes crinkle. “Jim’s too?”

“Jim’s here because he wouldn’t give me your address otherwise. He wanted to make sure you weren’t unhappy to see me.”

He waits a beat, but she doesn’t attempt to fill the silence. “Are you?” he asks.

“I suppose it depends on why you’re here.”

He gestures at Jim. “Do you really want to have this discussion in front of …?”

She walks back over to the door and opens it. “If a discussion is what you came to have, I’m not interested.” She looks apologetically at Jim. “I’m sorry you were dragged out of bed. Thanks for— “

“I’m not here to _discuss_ anything,” Will interrupts.

“Your words, not mine.”

“I misspoke.” Once again, he looks at Jim meaningfully, but she refuses to grant him a reprieve. He supposes it’s no less than he deserves, but _must_ she humiliate him in front of a member of their staff? From the look on Jim’s face, he isn’t thrilled to be a party to it, either.

“MacKenzie,” Will says. “Can we please speak privately?”

As much as she enjoys seeing Will twist in the wind, she knows he’s right: it isn’t fair to force Jim to bear witness to it.

She relents and turns her attention to Jim. “Thanks for coming, Jim. I can take it from here.”

“You sure?” Jim asks.

She smiles at him. “I’m sure. But thank you. For looking out for me. You can go.”

Jim nods and turns away. “Wait,” MacKenzie and Will call at the same time.

“How are you getting home?” MacKenzie asks.

“My driver will take him. And here,” Will says, pulling a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and holding them out to Jim.

“What’s that for?” Jim asks.

“For getting you up in the middle of the night and for looking out for her. You’re a good friend.”

“I don’t need—"

“Yeah, I know. Just take it, will you? It’s nearly two and I’m too old to be up this late.”

“Fine. Uh, thanks,” he says, tucking the wad of cash in his pocket. “What should I tell your driver?”

Will doesn’t get a chance to answer.

“Tell him to come back here after he drops you off,” MacKenzie says.

Startled, Will looks at her. She squares her shoulders and looks at him defiantly. “I imagine this won’t take long.”

Jim looks from MacKenzie to Will then back to MacKenzie again. “Uh … okay.”

The door closes behind Jim and MacKenzie and Will stand there staring at each other.

“What is it that you wanted to say to me, Will?”

His expression is tender and warm—if a little nervous. “I wanted to tell you that I love you.” 

“You already told me that,” she shoots back. “Grudgingly, but still.”

“It wasn’t grudging.”

She raises her eyebrows at him but he forces himself to concentrate only on delivering the message she needs to receive.

“It _wasn’t_ —look. The love … the … _emotion_ … that’s what I feel, okay? The rest of it is a choice. And I’m making it. I’ve made it.”

“And what choice is that?”

He closes the distance between them and takes her hands.

“To have faith in us. To have faith in _you_. It’s like you said: I know what we had. And if we can have that again … I want it,” he tells her.

“Why?”

“Because nothing has been right for me since we split up. God, Mac … what happened tonight … it made me feel whole again. At peace. Like everything was as it should be. I haven’t felt that way in a long time. Years. Not since … well, you know.”

“That was a post-orgasmic high, Will. It didn’t last twenty minutes.”

“I know. But I think it would if we spent more time together. If we … reacquaint ourselves with one another.”

“Why do you think that?”

“We’ve been apart a long time. But I think the foundation is still there. We’re like a cottage that’s been abandoned for a few years. There are a lot of cobwebs to be swept away, but structurally, fundamentally, we’re sound.”

She’s silent for a moment as a sense of loss wells within her: things will never be as they were, nor will they ever be what they might have become if they’d stayed together. And it’s all his fault.

“Do you remember when you told me to get the fuck out of your life?” she asks, seemingly apropos of nothing.

 _Oh God_. _Do we have to go there?_ She's clearly in charge tonight, so he supposes they must. 

“Yes," he replies.

He hadn't expected her to be cheerful when he showed up on her doorstep tonight, and in some ways, it's important that she not be: at least this way the necessary arguments can ensue. Awaiting them is terrible, but it's his due. He'll wait patiently until she's ready to speak and then he'll hear anything she has to say.

He forces himself to hold her gaze, watching as her expression becomes melancholy. She thinks of what his presence here means and the capitulation it signifies. And it makes her want to know all of it: if he's so certain about her now, how could he have done what he did to her?

“Why did you do it? If you knew what we had, how could you let me go?”

He appears dazed for a moment, then stands up straighter. “I didn’t think I had a choice.” 

“That scene has tortured me,” she says quietly. “You had everything of me that mattered and you tossed it away as though it was nothing. As though _I_ were nothing." 

She falls silent and he resists the urge to close his eyes. He has no desire to hear just how badly she'd been affected by his lunacy but he hopes she will at least give him the chance to express his commitment to embarking on a new path. If he hasn't blown it completely with her he intends to devote himself to vanquishing the vindictive side of his personality that allowed him to do behave as he did.

"You became heartless and cruel … someone I didn’t know," she tells him. "And on the day I left, you just stood there staring at me while I waited for the elevator. Your eyes were so cold. So contemptuous. I’ve never been able to forget it.”

“I’m sorry. But you shouldn't mistake what you saw for what I truly felt. I was miserable. I knew that if I didn’t keep my distance I'd grab hold of you and beg you not to go.”

“So, you _were_ conflicted.”

“Of course, I was conflicted,” he says hotly, his commitment to equanimity suddenly gone. “Jesus Christ, MacKenzie, I _loved_ you. I was devastated. But I didn’t think I had a choice."

His conscience kicks him in the pants. _Knock it off, you idiot. Stop being so goddamned defensive and own your part in this crap. Give her what she deserves._

He deflates quickly. "Look, I'm not here to justify my behavior that night. It was indefensible. I don't mean the anger ..." No, the anger was understandable. It was what he did with that anger that was unforgivable. "I mean the fact that I let it destroy our relationship. I can see that now," he says slowly. "And I'm honestly shocked I couldn't see it before." Well, refused to see it before, lest it pop the self-righteous bubble in which he'd set up shop. Had it ever occurred to him over the last three years that he could have reacted another way? Yes. But only momentarily. Because whenever those thoughts were upon him he pushed them away.

He takes a deep breath and tells her some of what had been on his mind on his way to Jim's place. "Earlier, you asked if I could have done that to someone I actually loved. I was thinking about it on the way over and you were right ... not about not loving you, but about actually walking the talk. You deserved a hearing when you made your confession and I refused to give you one. I was so wrapped up in my own head that I didn't consider what I owed you ... as my partner. Or what I owed the relationship. I should have taken a step back. I should have fought for us."

He gazes at her intently, suffused with regret. "I just ... Mac, I was so hurt and so pissed ... it was all I could see and all I could feel. I tortured myself, constantly imagining the two of you together ... in bed ... conspiring against me ... in hindsight, it was ridiculous, but rational thought just kind of went out the window. I let it. And that's all on me."

She can't help being moved by his sincerity. He's taking at least part of the responsibility for the destruction of their relationship, and it means the world to her. In fact, his words are a balm for her battered heart.

"I'm sorry I was so self-absorbed," he tells her. He takes a deep breath and exhales softly. "Kind of like I was tonight, huh? At my apartment?"

She nods.

"Yeah. Once again, I was so wrapped up in trying to figure out what was going on in my head I didn't think about what I was doing to you." He sighs and looks down before looking up again. "I'm sorry. Truly."

“What brought this on?"

Her tone is tentative but he understands the compulsion that forces her to ask the question—even as he recognizes her fear of what his answer might be.

Once again, she’s forcing him to take stock. To analyze his behavior and his motivations. He’s been on autopilot so long he hardly knows how to do it but he tries, taking a moment to think about it. “You. Walking into the elevator. It was kind of like what happens when you flip a coin."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes you do that because you can't make a choice, but what's interesting is that as soon as the coin is in the air, as soon as the choice has been taken from you, what you really want becomes crystal clear. When I saw those doors closing between us, I felt completely alone. And lonely. For you." He puts his finger under her chin to lift it so he can stare into her eyes. "I want you, MacKenzie. And I will do whatever I have to do to keep you.” It’s an odd vow, one that comes from a place that’s usually inaccessible to him. But it resonates as the truth and he owns it.

She's silent for a moment, considering. "To what extent? What would you do now if you doubted me? Would you abandon me again?”

He sighs. She's not going easy on him tonight, that's for sure. And he'd answer her if he could, but he doesn't know. Because the response to that question requires contemplation; it’s not something he can just pull out of his ass.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes widen.

“I mean … I wouldn’t do that,” he says quickly. “Obviously. But … I don’t know exactly what I _would_ do because I haven’t thought about it. What would you want me to do?”

“I know what _I’d_ do. I’m asking you.”

He _is_ contrite and he _is_ sincere and he really _does_ want to do the right thing, but he's also exhausted. Has she forgotten his age and that it is way, way past his bedtime? He'd been up most of last night, unable to sleep over thoughts of her, over how perilously close he kept coming to abandoning his vow to himself where she was concerned. In her proximity lay the truth: no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he missed her. And he wanted her. So he'd spent last night trying to devise ways to combat the feeling. And tonight, the very next night, she'd shown him how ineffectual those techniques were.

He looks at her. Surely she knows there’s a very good chance that whatever crap he comes up with is just going to piss her off. Is she trying to trip him up? Why the hell can’t she just tell him what she wants to hear and be done with it?

"Isn't that something we should decide together? I mean, maybe if we'd had this conversation in the beginning we'd have had a roadmap for when the shit inevitably hit the fan. Maybe things wouldn't have gone so spectacularly off the rails."

"What would it be, then? The roadmap? What would you do the next time you doubted me?"

 _Good God._ How the hell would he know? And if he comes up with something on the spot is she going to hold him to it?

He casts about wildly in his head. “Uh, I could … give you the benefit of the doubt? Talk to you about it? Give you a chance to explain? Uh … and … if that wasn’t enough, we could … I could … go to therapy?”

“So you _would_ fight for us. This time you would.”

He sighs. “Yes. I’ve learned my lesson, Mac. I’m not omniscient. And that thing you said earlier? About doing whatever it takes to make sure the relationship stays intact? I agree with you. I'd do that now."

“Were you relieved when I was gone?”

Did she just change the channel _again_? He’s having a hard time keeping up with her. 

“ _No._ It was horrible.”

“Tell me.”

 _Please, please stop torturing me._ He rubs his hand tiredly over his eyes. “Can we sit down? Please?”

“Sure.”

She walks over, sits on the couch and motions for him to sit beside her. He follows and bends his creaking knees to settle gratefully back against the cushions.

He turns toward her. “Like I said. I was miserable.” He closes his eyes as he casts back to those dark days. “I hardly knew what day it was, what time it was … it was insane. _I_ was insane. I could barely function.” He remembers moments when he was barely able to get out of bed. Of suddenly coming to consciousness and finding himself holding the refrigerator door open, staring at the dark, empty shelves, unseeing, as the refrigerator’s warning bell rang. He remembers how badly he’d longed for the release of tears but could only find resentment: angry, violent resentment that made him want to destroy things. 

One thing he could never forget however, even in those cold dark days, was how much he’d loved her. Memories of her laughter, of talking to her all night, even their arguments—such precious, dear moments would assail him constantly. Some days, the agony of missing her had numbed, but other days, it screamed within him.

One of the worst parts of her absence—and Will had had ample time to weigh it all carefully—was his return to the lesser Will he'd been before her. He knew he was overbearing. He knew he was prickly. But with her, he’d been different. He'd been liked, welcomed even, and for more than his money and his status. She’d made him feel livelier, more interesting, a better version of himself. Without her, he was back to being the man he had been so happy to cast off. As the months passed, he began to doubt that he remembered her exactly. Was her hair a chestnut brown, or were there traces of auburn in it? Her eyes, he could never forget, but how exactly was the sound of her voice? Did she eat oysters? Were her feet small or large? These and other things tormented him; he both desired and feared forgetting who she was, all the small intricacies of her.

His eyes swing up again to hold her gaze. “But I discovered that if I only focused on what _you’d_ done I could function again. And that’s where I’ve been for the last three years. Steadfastly. Resolutely. Until three weeks ago when you walked back into my life and blew the fucking manhole cover off everything. Off me.”

She nods as she considers his words. She appreciates his sincerity and his vow to change his ways, but it can't be in the abstract. It has to be concrete. Something she can count on.

She needs a commitment from him. A full, no-holds-barred commitment from him.

But does she dare ask?


	6. Chapter 6

It's not because the insecure, angry and betrayed part of her psyche is clamoring for certainty and justice (though one _could_ argue that he abandoned her and it was all for _nothing_ ). It's not even because she wants to fast forward to where they would have been if his pig-headedness hadn’t split them apart.

It's because he’s the linchpin. The center. And what she needs more than anything else is for him to want to anchor himself into that space. Because that’s how they’re going to create the foundation on which to build.

She will not be a harpy. She will not be overwrought. She'll simply be honest about where she stands—calmly, serenely—and let him decide whether their desires align. After all, the entire reason she’d ambushed him tonight was because she wanted their lives back (which she’d made perfectly clear to him); surely, there’s no need to be coy now. 

“Do you see this as a trial run or ... something more lasting?” she asks.

He stares at her, his eyebrows furrowed. He hadn’t thought of anything beyond getting his ass over here and liberating himself from the doghouse. “I don’t know,” he says. “I was thinking we would just do it, I guess. I don’t have an exit strategy.”

 _Fair enough._ But she is where she is and she wants what she wants. If they don’t want the same thing, that’s fine—it’s his decision. But she’d very much like to know for certain—one way or the other. Yes, their current relationship is only hours old but they _know_ each other. They know they’re compatible. They know they share the same interests. They know that each inspires passion, affection, excitement and lust in the other. What else is there to know, really?

“And if I want more?”

It takes him a split second to catch the song. “More?” he asks. _Oh._ “You mean … living together? Marriage?”

“Marriage.”

The word thumps him in the chest, hard and full of portent. He doesn’t visibly react, just stares at her with something that might be wonder but is probably shock. _Are we doing this now? Are you ASKING me now?_ “Marriage,” he repeats. As if repeating it will … _what?_ she wonders. _Buy him some time?_ “You want to marry me,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

She forces herself to speak evenly. Her words are exact, precise, and as sharp as a tri-edge spiraling dagger. “I want everything with you, Will. Marriage. Children. Old age. A life where our relationship is a given. Where dissolving it has to be done by the courts. I want to be locked into you. And I want you to want to be locked into me.”

He ponders her statement. Marriage—or rather, their coupledom as a fixed, unchanging point—is not something that’s crossed his mind in the last three hours (though it had crossed his mind (a _lot_ ) when they were together before). But he’s slightly confused: he already told her he's in, so what's the rush? Does it really need to be written in stone? Not (if he's being honest with himself) that he'd have a problem with that because the picture she’d painted actually sounds pretty damned sweet. And besides, that little voice is in his head again, the one that pushes him toward giving her whatever the hell she wants. _Maybe she has a point_ , it reasons. _Neither of us is getting any younger and there IS a finite period in which we can have the kind of life she described._ _We may have been back together for less time than it takes to host a Thanksgiving dinner but we know each other as well as two people can._ The only thing stopping him is that they _just_ got back together. Literally. And he’s fairly certain that would qualify as “rushing into it" in the eyes of any rational outside observer.

He takes her hand off his arm and folds his fingers in between hers and she has to bite her lip to tamp down the butterflies in her stomach. “Mac, we’ve been back together less than three hours.”

“So?”

 _Do I really need to spell it out for you?_ “Don’t you want to … I don’t know … take it slow? Get to know each other again?”

“Have you changed materially in the last three years?”

“No, but ...”

“Then it’s not necessary. For me, anyway. If that’s what _you_ want, fine, but don’t mistake your feelings for mine.”

She looks at him steadily, gazing at him with such intensity he’s terrified at the prospect of what’s going to come out of her mouth next. And when it does, it’s all he can do to keep his outward reaction to a minimum.

“I want to marry you, Will.”

 _Oh God._ For a moment he loses the power of speech, but it's of little consequence: she's happy to take up the mantle:

“I wanted to marry you before. I don’t need months or years to figure that out; I already know it. But if that’s something you know you _don’t_ want, you should say so." She pauses, wondering how best to express this piece of the puzzle—the ticking of the clock. "Before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” 

Should she lay _all_ her cards on the table? Well, why the hell not? Surely there's no shame in being explicit.

“I want children," she tells him. "And I don’t want to invest years in a relationship with you only for you to tell me somewhere down the road I’m not what you want.”

He rolls his eyes. As _if_. Hell, if not wanting her were actually an option they wouldn't be where they are today. “That’s not going to happen," he says, dismissing her.

“Why not?”

He looks at her as if she’s an inanimate object that’s just started speaking. “Because it isn’t. Obviously, you _are_ what I want. That’s not going to change. When has that _ever_ changed, for Christ's sake?”

She raises her eyebrows at him.

"The _wanting_ part, I mean," he qualifies.

She doesn’t answer. He’s just provided his own evidence and it’s up to him to decide how far he wants to take this.

He thinks about it. And as he does, he wonders if he’s lost his mind: why _doesn’t_ marriage sound like the craziest idea he’s ever heard? He looks up and holds her gaze and once again he is bewitched by her lovely, wide eyes. He’s always felt she could see into his soul and this moment—as it has been this entire bizarre evening—is no exception.

Maybe, maybe … in surrender lies freedom. If he jumps headlong into her, he could spend his days untethered from the bindings of the past. Wouldn’t _that_ be something? To just put the whole damned thing behind him? He could luxuriate in just being with her. Loving her and being loved by her. She _has_ promised not to burn the whole house down with him in it, and the (possibly pathetic) fact of the matter is that she’s offering him the chance to have what he’s wanted since the moment he met her. All that’s required of him is to walk the talk. The thought that it requires him to walk the talk for the rest of his life gives him pause but only momentarily. Because in the end, it’s merely a choice. An important one, but not a complicated one. Or it doesn’t have to be. Because he wants her. And if he’s jumping in, he might as well jump all the way in. No half-measures.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

She doesn’t dare believe it. “You want what I want? Really?”

He laughs. “It’s been a whirlwind courtship, Mac, but yes. I do.”

She stares at him, amazed at the fact that he did _not_ append a qualifier like “I think” to that statement.

He grins at her then and when he leans over and frames her face with his hands that feeling of certainty that he’s only ever felt with her washes over him. _This is home, you’re home, I love you, Mac. I love you._ He gives her a blinding kiss that takes her breath away and he’s astonished to discover how thrilled he is that the woman who was his enemy not three hours ago is now his fiancée. _Has any man ever been so detached from his own psyche? Jesus._

He’s startled by her next words. “Do you think your driver’s back?”

 _Are you kicking me out?_ “I … doubt it … do you … do you … want me to go?”

She shakes her head, then cups his cheek and presses a delicate kiss against his lips. “No. You should call him,” she whispers. “Let him know he’s free to go.”

“Oh,” he says, exhaling softly. “That’s a relief.” She can’t resist wrapping her arms tightly around his back and as she presses her cheek against his chest, he buries his face in her hair. It feels _good_ to hold her like this. To be so close to her. He feels ecstatic and warm and at peace.

Her muffled voice travels up to him from below. “You should call him.”

He nods, relinquishes his hold on her and pulls out his phone to make the call. When he’s finished, he looks up to find her standing in front of him and extending a hand. “Ready for bed?”

He nods wearily, takes her hand, and leans forward to stand up. “You have no idea.”

She helps him to his feet and tucks herself into his side. “Did Danielle wear you out?”

“Danielle?” 

“She looks like she could be a handful.”

“I guess it takes one to know one.”

She thumps him lightly on the arm.

But as they make their way to the bedroom her conscience starts to nag her. _Did I just browbeat you into agreeing to marry me?_

They help each other off with their clothes and when they climb into bed he manipulates her limbs until she’s on her side and he’s behind her. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck and as she smooths her hand across his forearm she allows herself to relax for what feels like the first time in years.

Still, the question keeps pricking her. And so, eventually she’s compelled to ask it. “Will?”

“Mmmmh.”

“Do you really want to marry me?" she says in a small voice. "I feel like I kind of browbeat you into it.” Her fingers tap little messages into his skin and he receives them loud and clear because he’s familiar with her tactics.

He snorts. “Only kind of?”

“Did I?”

“MacKenzie, don’t do that thing,” he says, yawning.

“What thing?”

“That thing. That women do. Please. Or … do it tomorrow when I’m not half dead.”

“What thing?” she repeats.

“That _thing._ You know … where you browbeat a man into doing you want, then passively-aggressively try to get him to say it’s what _he_ really wants so you can let yourself off the hook for browbeating him in the first place.”

“Is what you think I’m trying to do?”

“I know that’s what you’re trying to do,” he says, yawning so wide he thinks it might break his jaw. “But in this case, it’s fine. Yes, you browbeat me into it. But I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do. I love you, we’re getting married and everything’s going to be great.”

“Really?”

“ _Really_. So, can we please go to sleep now? It’s been a long day." He yawns again. "A beautiful woman ambushed me, had her way with me and roped me into marrying her. I’m exhausted.” 

“Sounds horrible,” she says.

“It was,” he says, kissing her neck as he pulls her tightly against his body and buries his face in her hair. He breathes deeply. She smells like lavender and spring rain and MacKenzie and home and it feels so _good_ to have her pressed against him. It fills him with contentment and warmth. “She's a real ball-breaker. I didn’t think I’d make it out alive.”

“You did, though,” she murmurs. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”

He snuggles against her and tries to drift off. Minutes pass and he's not quite able to get there because he can’t stop thinking about the past. How much time they’ve wasted. Everything that’s happened as a consequence of a split-second decision he made three years ago.

She senses something’s weighing on him.

“Something on your mind?” she finally asks.

Should he say it? He should, he decides. He really should. A clean slate and all. “Just …” he trails off. “I uh … “

Her heart starts to pound but he only laces their fingers together and brings one of her hands over her shoulder to press his lips against her palm.

“I can’t stop thinking about what happened back then,” he says as his lips skate over her skin. “I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you, Mac. So sorry you went off to Peshawar and so _fucking_ sorry you got stabbed.”

She twists against him as she brings her hand back down in front of her and his with it. “Thank you. It means a lot to me to hear you say that.” She gives his wrist a gentle squeeze as she presses her bare bottom against him. “I’m glad you came over tonight,” she whispers. She clutches him tightly, thrilled beyond belief that she can feel his skin everywhere—behind her, alongside her, under her fingertips.

“Me, too,” he answers.

He burrows his face more deeply into her neck and she waits for the telltale jerk that will let her know he’s passed into deep sleep. It’s funny how much she remembers about being with him like this. How he’s always loved to bury his face in her neck and breathe her in. Lazy Saturday mornings spent reading the papers, his head resting against her abdomen as she lay back on a mountain of pillows, her fingers combing through his hair. This part, the intimacy, had been always been so easy between them. She’s spent the last three years craving it, longing for it because unlike with her ex-boyfriend, she’d been free to be herself with Will. She’d never had to pretend to be anything she wasn’t. Whatever she was, she was and he seemed to love her for it.

She sighs contentedly as he absently brushes his fingers up and down her arm—whether by habit or by rote—as if he can’t stop himself from reassuring himself that she’s there, letting him touch her. Finally, his fingers still and she waits for him to pass into deep sleep.

Minutes pass, maybe five, and when she feels him shift behind her and knows he hasn’t fallen asleep yet, she decides to ask another question.

“Will?” she whispers. “Are you awake?”

“No." 

She waits a beat before asking—rather adorably, “It sounds like you are." She waits for him to respond and when he doesn't, follows her initial query with another one. "When do you want to do it? Get married, I mean?”

He snorts. Jesus, she’s really nailing him to the cross tonight. Honest to God, he hadn’t thought about it and he truly doesn’t give a fuck. As far as he’s concerned they just got married and the ceremony’s a formality. Even so, he decides to pretend to be mildly annoyed because he likes fucking with her a little (she'll know it’s performative because giving her anything she wants is pretty much preordained).

“Seriously?” he says.

“It’s just a question. You don’t have to answer it.”

“Gee ... I wonder what the penalty for _that_ would be.”

“No penalty,” she says. "I was just wondering."

“Riiiiiight.”

He provides a response he hopes is a) acceptable and b) sufficient to get her off his back for the night. “If you don’t want a big wedding now we can get the license on Monday and have a civil ceremony on Tuesday. We can do something with our families later. How’s that?”

 _Oh my God_. She could be his wife in a little under four days. The idea is _thrilling_ to her. “I like that idea,” she smiles.

“Do you like it well enough to let me go to sleep?” 

“I don’t remember you being quite so prickly.”

“And I don’t remember you being such a chatterbox.”

“Sorry," she says, twisting her head to kiss him. "Go to sleep then.”

He traces a hand over her arm, fingers brushing her skin before skating down her chest and settling between the curve of her breast and the bed.

“’Love you,” he says involuntarily. Once again, the words are forced from his throat, a product of his nearness to her naked form.

“'Love you, too,” she returns.

They lay there in silence once again. He thinks he might be able to drift off soon but her mind has been on overdrive since the moment he stepped out of the elevator in his apartment. Now, thoughts of logistics and practicalities flood her mind. If she moves into Will’s place, can she get out of the lease she just signed? If not, to whom will she sublet the apartment? She has no idea why it suddenly seems imperative to have everything settled but it does.

She hasn’t felt the telltale twitch of Will falling into deep sleep so ... maybe he can't sleep either and she should just ask him?

“Will?” she whispers.

Crap. He was _just_ getting there. “Mmmh?” he murmurs as he drags himself back to wakefulness.

“What about after the wedding? Where do you want to live?”

“Anywhere. I don’t care.” It sounds as if he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

She’s silent for a moment as she weighs their options. Her apartment is homier but his is bigger and has an extra bedroom. “We’ll stay in your apartment, then. It’s bigger. Until we find someplace more suitable for a family.”

His eyes pop open. “Jesus, are we having kids immediately, too?”

She lifts her head. “It could happen. We did just have unprotected sex.”

 _Oh God._ “Whatever you say, honey. Just … can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“Sorry.” She twists her head to peer in the direction of his face. “Goodnight, Billy. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He tugs, coaxes and pulls her body so she’s facing him and when they're finally parallel, he dips his head down, buries his face in her neck and flings his arm over her upper arm. As he burrows into her he can feel himself starting to relax again. She smells good. Everything about being with her feels good and once again he’s surprised by just how goddammed elated he is to have her coiled around his body.

He feels better now than he has in three years. Like he actually has a future. Something to look forward to.

_Who’d have thunk it?_

He closes his eyes and finally, finally, falls asleep.

_\--_

_Six hours later_

When he comes to consciousness he’s surprised to feel something warm molded to his body and smiles when he opens his eyes to discover MacKenzie’s face is three inches away from his. She’s laying on her side, one arm flung over his torso and he’s got one of his slung over hers. 

He spends a moment cataloguing her features—the wide eyes fringed by long eyelashes, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the fullness of her lips. Her soft, soft skin.

He drifts off again and when he opens his eyes a half hour later he sees MacKenzie is still sleeping but she’s now pressing the full length of her body against him. Which gives him an idea. He nudges her awake, turnabout being fair play and all.

She blinks a few times and her eyes widen when her gaze falls on him. It wasn’t a dream. He’s really here. In her bed.

_Beautiful._

“Hey,” he says, kissing her.

“Hey.”

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. “I have a follow-up question to something you said last night.”

“What is it?”

“Did you say we had unprotected sex?”

“Hmmmm,” she says groggily.

“You’re not on …?”

“No,” she says, snuggling into him. “I haven’t needed to be.” She lifts her head to peer into his face. “You were the last man I had sex with.”

 _What? Wow_. He has no idea why that comes as such welcome news but it does. In fact, the knowledge that she, too, has been celibate since their breakup starts doing all kinds of things to his body that don’t escape her notice.

“You like that idea, don’t you?” she asks. “That there hasn’t been anyone since you? Or is it the unprotected sex part that turns you on?”

“Both,” he says, wide awake now. He runs his hand down her back and strokes her bare bottom, sending frissons of sensation up her spine. She yelps with surprise when he flips her over and pins her beneath him and heat coils low in her belly when she feels him hot and hard against her core. She arches her hips against him and he groans. “In fact, I love it so much I think we should do it again,” he tells her. “And again, and again and again until it takes. Starting now.”

He bends down to nibble her ear and as he grinds against her the twin sensations fill her with need.

“God, yes, Will,” she says, suddenly desperate to feel him inside her. “Please.”

They both throw their shackles away. As he stares into her eyes their connection begins to sizzle and pop, and their lips meet in a frenzied moment of exultation. It's a holy union of spiritual energy with animal chemistry. She is so full of happiness, so exhilarated she can hardly contain it. He’s lain down his arms and she gets to spend the rest of her life with a man she loves beyond all reason. She can hardly believe it. She feels as if she’s soaring, completely untethered from the uncertainty and pain and doubts that have dogged her for the last three years. She feels as if she could fly, as if she’s free in his arms … completely free to express the love in her heart. There’s no restraint, only frenzy as they both give in to the tumult of emotions that each inspires in the other.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve spent the last three years apart. Everything about being together is muscle memory.

His desperation to get inside their connection makes his brain short out and the only words in his mind as he grinds against her and explores her mouth with his tongue are _so good, so right, so good, so good, I love you, Mac, I love you_. They part mouths for a gasping breath and then his lips are on her face, on her neck, moving down and covering her in kisses both tender and hungry. He devours her. With every new touch she feels new shocks of pleasure wracking her body and she quivers beneath him, unable to lay still. When he presses himself against her she parts her legs so that the length of his body lay between them. With a soft grunt of pleasure, he grinds down against her and she gasps, feeling him hard and strong against her. His body is suffused with tenderness and lust and fever and a sensation that everything in the universe is exactly as it should be.

He feels between them to make sure she’s ready and he’s thrilled to discover that his effect on her is apparently equal to her effect on him. Her slick heat and soft moans indicate she’s more than ready to receive him and that knowledge, combined with the knowledge of what he’s about to do to her, is so erotic he can barely keep it together.

She holds her breath, waiting for him to claim her and when she feels him take himself in hand and position himself at her entrance she spreads her legs wide to give him greater access. He flexes his hips to make a few tentative, shallow thrusts and then plunges into her, no longer holding back, and she shrieks with pleasure.

 _You feel so good, Billy. So good. God, I love you. I love you._ She writhes beneath him, clutching at his arms, her roving hands moving first to his waist and then his hips; her fingers digging into his buttocks, urging him to take her faster, harder. She clings to him as he drives into her, deeper and harder, pressing her against the mattress, making the bed creak.

He feels as if he’s being driven to madness by the exhilaration of finally, finally being able to expose (even to himself) what’s in the deepest recesses of his heart and mind and body. Not only to expose it but _indulge_ it. “I love you,” he grunts. “I love you.” Being inside her, being able to stare into her eyes as he moves within her is like nothing he’s ever experienced. He’s had sex with other women of course, but it’s never been like it is with her, all heat and emotion and lust and love and tenderness and perfection. It just feels _right_. As if it were preordained. As if it were written in the stars. No doubts. No worries. Just joy and love and lust and light. She’s his woman and he’s her man and they’re bonding now, forging a single entity that will subsume them both.

 _Nothing is more important than this,_ he thinks _. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing_. He’s filled with an insane amount of joy when it occurs to him that he’s doing exactly what nature intends him to do. It’s primal and base and a million other things but most of all it’s simple. Everything can be distilled down to this; the potential for this act has driven every interaction he and MacKenzie have ever had. It’s what nature wants. In fact, as far as romantic relationships are concerned, it’s the only thing that matters: mating and the begetting of children. He’s free now, free to indulge his deepest desires and it’s _glorious_.

She turns her head and his lips touch hers, a long, tender touch even as he plunges deep, his hard length filling her. He reaches between them to pleasure her and her body tenses as the heat builds inside her, carrying her higher and higher until at last she flies apart, crying his name as ecstasy washes over her.

Her cries trigger a chain reaction in his own body and he thrusts harder, faster, determined to fulfill his biological imperative. _“Love you, love you, love you_ ,” he chants and his declaration fans the flames of her desire once again. Finally, he thrusts himself into her as hard as he can and she feels him shudder as he spills within her, gasping and crying her name. He continues to rut into her, desperate to give her everything he has and she’s catapulted to the top of another wave of ecstasy. She cries out as she falls over it, clutching his body to hers and reveling in the absolute joy of being soldered to him. God, she loves this man. No one, ever, ever, ever, ever has made her feel a fraction of what he makes her feel. She feels it in every cell of her body, as buoying, warm, and radiant as the sun.

He collapses on top of her, panting, pressing his face into her neck as he inhales deeply, luxuriating in the sweet scent of her skin. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you.” Eyes closed, he reaches beside her to grab her hand and twines his fingers with hers. Her heart swells with feeling as she gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you, too,” she tells him.

She’s been made whole again.

And so has he.

\--

The next morning, she packs a week’s worth of clothes and follows Will back to his apartment. Aside from a trip to a jewelry store to get rings, they spend the entire weekend in bed, making up for lost time.

He can’t seem to keep his hands off her, no matter what they’re doing: preparing meals, reading the paper or discussing stories they might cover next week. An emotional switch has been flipped within him and he wants to be near her, next to her, or in her every second.

“What are we going to tell the staff?” she says Sunday night.

Unwilling to lose their connection for even a moment, he keeps her tucked closely into his body and moves with her as she reaches for the stack of newspaper clippings that litter the bed.

“Do we have to tell them?” he asks as he settles back against the pillows, one arm dangling over her shoulder.

“It was practically impossible for me to keep my hands off you before, Will,” she says, snuggling into him. “Now there’s just no way. They’re going to guess.”

“Do you really think they’ll care? Surely they have better things to think about.”

She cranks her neck back to stare at him. “Are you ashamed?”

He looks at her like she’s grown two heads. “Of what?”

“Me. _Us_.”

His eyes dart from one side of the room to the other. “Why would I be?”

“You don’t want anyone to know.”

“I didn’t say that. I couldn’t care less who knows. I’ll take out an ad in the _Times_ if you want. I just think you’re dramatically overestimating people’s level of interest in either one of us. I couldn’t care less about office romances.”

She relaxes into his body and strokes his forearm. “I think you’re dramatically _under_ estimating people’s level of interest in us, Will.” She replaces her fingers with her lips, and he sighs contentedly as he feels them brushing against his skin. “We’re their bosses,” she says, kissing him. “We were together before,” she whispers, following it up with another kiss. “We’re together again.” And another kiss. “It’s sure to pique their interest.” She slides her hand up his bare thigh. “I just think we should be prepared, is all.”

“Are you trying to start something, honey?” he says, opening his legs wider, luxuriating in her touch.

“Not at all.” She twists her head around to kiss him on the lips. Suddenly, she twists away from him and then she’s astride him, rubbing herself against him.

“So, you’re just trying to torture me?” he says, grinning.

“Now, why would you think that?” She leans forward and presses her lips against his.

“No reason.” He mirrors her movements except his lips skate across her nose. “Do you know how many times we’ve had sex in the last two days?” he asks her.

“No.”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven? Want to make it an even dozen?” she says, kissing him.

He strokes her hair back from her forehead. “I want to, yes. Whether I’m able to is another question. You’ve taken everything I have, MacKenzie. My psychological refractory period may be over but my physiological one isn’t.”

“Okay,” she fake pouts.

“I can get you off, though.”

“No,” she yawns, covering her mouth. “I’ll wait for you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” She climbs off him and settles back against his side. “What were we talking about?”

“The staff. What we’re telling them. When we’re telling them.”

“We’ll say something at the first rundown meeting.”

“Do I have to pretend I don’t know you until then?”

“No,” she sighs. She’s probably being ridiculous. Maybe he’s right. “Just do what comes naturally.”

“What comes naturally is a misdemeanor if you do it in public.”

“Within reason.”

“Okay.”

Which is how they come to arrive in AWM’s lobby hand-in-hand after a quick stop at city hall to get the marriage license. Will does a quick scan of the area and, not seeing anyone they know, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. Mercifully, they have the elevator all to themselves, so Will takes the opportunity to kiss her full on the lips as soon as the doors close. She’s eagerly returning his kiss when someone forces the doors open and steps inside.

“Sorry … I’m late for a meeting and...”

It takes a moment until either Will or MacKenzie registers the presence of another person but when they do, they spring apart and the other elevator occupant stares at them, mouth agape.

 _What the hell did I just see?_ Sloan thinks.


End file.
